PAST MASTERS

FORTY-SEVEN

October 2021

Part 3

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: Report to Major Roberts / Hervey Allen

2: The Story of a Young Robber / Washington Irving

3: An Unposted Letter / Newton MacTavish

4: William Tells / H. C. Witwer

5: The Parole of Gevil-Hay / K. & Hesketh Prichard

6: Not So Big /  H. C. Witwer

7: The Hammerpond Park Burglary / H. G. Wells

8: The Strength of the Meek / C. S. Montanye

9: Mr. John Smith in Paris / Jacques Futrelle (novelette)

10: The Stone Cat / Miles J. Breuer

11: Millions for Defense / Miles J. Breuer

12: A Comedy of Crime / Maarten Maartens

13: Peter / Arthur Sherburne Hardy

14: Mr. Clackworthy Revives a Town / Christopher B. Booth

Cumulative Index Nos 31-47

____________________

1: Report to Major Roberts

Hervey Allen

1889-1949

Cosmopolitan, Feb 1940

Hervey Allen is best known for his vast novel "Anthony Adverse"

WHEN THE histories of this century finally get written it is highly probable that the days in which we have recently been living will be called the "Armistice"; that the great struggle with Germany which began in August, 1914, will be seen to divide itself into three periods: the First World War, the Armistice from November, 1918, to September, 1939, and the Second World War upon which Europe then entered. Our own part in that still remains to be seen. No one can tell.

But one thing is certain: two generations or more will be involved in this history. And experiences of the first generation, those who took part in the actual fighting between 1914 and 1918, cannot now fail to be of interest and of value to the next generation. "What is war like?" they are asking. Not war on the radio or in the newspapers, but real war, fighting.

Well, it's like this:

HERE is the story of a certain American lieutenant of infantry in July, 1918— a raw young man just out of college; out of the junior class. He never was graduated. And it was not until years later that he realized that events had conferred upon him the degree of B.M.A., Bachelor of Military Arts (in the University of the Marne)— whether cum laude or not, you will have to decide for yourself.

Personally, I am inclined to tip the scales for the cum laude. In fact, I think a Distinguished Service Cross or a medal was in order. But it was never conferred. For nobody knows all about this story except Lieutenant Force himself— Richard M. Force, to be exact.

He embodied the facts behind this sample of war in a curious report to one Major Roberts, who got himself bumped off before he could read it. Force says now that he thinks reporting to Major Roberts became an obsession. A week of shellfire sometimes distorts one's mental perspective. Anyhow, he made the report. In so far as it was possible, he actually reported in person to Major Roberts, as you shall see.

Two years ago Force, who was an officer in my division, showed that report to me. Both of us had forgotten what those days in July, 1918, were like; what war was like. Now it seems that those days may come back again, unless we are very careful. That's the reason I asked Force to let me retell the story from his strange report to Major Roberts.

He consented reluctantly. He doesn't want to get into personal controversies. He has asked me to change the names in the report— all of them, including his own, And I have also shuffled the letters and numbers of minor commands.

Richard M. Force, hereafter referred to as Dick or Lieutenant Force, was born in one of the northern counties of Pennsylvania along the New York line. It is important to recall that the county in which he was born was, and still is, more or less covered with woods and forests, and that when he was not going to school in the small town of Mapleton in which he lived, he was playing in, and later on hunting and ranging through the woods about his home.

He developed without knowing it "a natural eye for terrain." Among other things, he could find his way across open country at night. His sense of direction was hard to kill. Dick never thought of this as part of his education. But later on, it was worth at least a year at West Point.

The rest of the prewar items which I might mention about him are that in 1917 he was the president of his class, a junior at a certain jerkwater college where he had nearly failed in Mathematics, but had made good marks in German and French, Unfortunately, German was dropped from the curriculum in 1917 just when it was most needed, as being an "enemy tongue."

The German professor, an Alsatian, was fired and regarded suspiciously. Dick's father, a man of sympathy and understanding, took him into his house. The professor joined the National Guard, the local town unit, to protect himself. And it was not long before he had persuaded Dick to join up with him.

The rifle practice appealed to Dick. As Dick was big, young and popular, and the best shot in the company, he soon found himself a sergeant and in turn enlisted a number of his friends, who preferred the Guard to the R. O, T. C., just then getting under way at the college.

In those days, officers were elected in the Pennsylvania National Guard, and when the order came for mobilization in April, Dick Force was second lieutenant of Company C. When he marched out of Mapleton he left behind him many warm friends and several not entirely frigid girls.

He thought that he was in love with one of them, but he never had time to find out. She was married when he returned. His parents were, of course, proud, tearful and anxious.

The United States War Department thought it important that Dick could speak French and German. It said he could on his record card. That was probably the reason he was sent "over there" early in 1918, ahead of his division in an advance school detachment. In March of that fateful year Dick Force found himself at the School of Arms in Langres, France. It was there that his adventures and his troubles began.

Was Dick started to the School of Arms he found himself in exalted company. He was the only lieutenant, and a second lieutenant at that, in a section of field and staff officers who were taking lectures on strategy and regimental problems. While all his equals in rank and age were living underground in a near-by fort constructed by Napoleon III, Dick was being herded with eagled great ones and listening to lectures on strategy and major tactics, It was uncomfortable, out of key. And there was no doubt that some of the older officers in his section resented his presence among them.

One Colonel Quincey of the Massachusetts Guard, very Boston, made no beans about it. To the colonel's jaundiced eye, Lieutenant Force from Pennsylvania must be a young man with a strong senatorial pull. Otherwise, why was he sitting next to the distinguished Colonel Quincey in a staff officers' section— and making better marks, at that? Why, indeed! Dick himself would have liked to know.

Major Constans, the French officer who lectured, had been an instructor at Saint-Cyr and he was also a student of English literature from the Sorbonne. That was why he had been chosen to lecture in English to the Americans. Lieutenant Dick was the only one in the class who could speak French. For that reason, Major Constans occasionally seemed to address himself solely to the lieutenant.

"Ha," said he one afternoon in his own language, "my chief success here seems to be what I cause gentlemen from Oi-o to fall into the deep sleep." And indeed a lieutenant colonel from Cleveland had succumbed. Major Constans actually winked at Dick and then went on in English:

"We were speaking," said he, "of the possibility of staff control after the larger unit has been sent forward into action. It is that control upon which victory may ultimately depend. But you of the staff must not depend wholly upon control, Let us admit that there may occur a condition in which communication and liaison fail and the battle conducts itself, Now, it is the thesis of Tolstoy in his great novel War and Peace that this loss of control must inevitably occur in every great battle. The battle is then with God.

"I trust you have all read that novel. I will not attempt to comment on Tolstoy's theory here. My own feeling is that, if and when the battle reaches the point where staff control is lost, that side will win whose subordinate officers are most ingenious in meeting the situation, most diligent in carrying out orders or resourceful in disregarding them. In short, victory will then incline to the army with the most intelligent lieutenants and the most tenacious troops.

"Perhaps," continued the French major, "it is upon that factor that the regiment whose colonel has been asleep all during this lecture will have to depend. Gentlemen, this section in strategy and somnolence is dismissed."

The section filed out with its tail between its legs. It is safe to say that there was not an officer in it who did not at the moment feel that one could do without any amount of lieutenants. And Dick was the only lieutenant in the section. He tried to duck down the hall, but didn't succeed. He ran into Colonel Quincey.

"I suppose," said the colonel, addressing Dick, "that the lieutenant has read that damn book by Tolstoy."

"I have, sir," Dick replied. "It was required at college sophomore year."

"Oh, was it?" said Colonel Quincey.

"Yes, sir," said Dick very loud and clear, and saluted. He knew he would have to pay for this, but he didn't care.

That was Dick's last class in strategy. The next day he received an order assigning him to the mail censor's office at Langres.

He read tons of letters, all of it the correspondence of enlisted men. Officers censored their own mail. He put his initials on miles of envelopes inside his censor's stamp.

He sat in a stone room at the barracks which appropriately had iron bars on its windows, and read letters. He seemed to have been sentenced for life to the task. No one disturbed him. At retreat he closed and locked the door and went home to his quarters. He didn't even belong to an officers' mess, He ate about town.

Nobody he knew was in Langres now. All his own detachment had returned to their division long before. The Germans were at Chateau-Thierry, getting ready to move into Paris, rumor said. It was June now, and he was still reading etters.

Despair overtook him. He took long walks into the country at night. Then he began dropping in at a little inn with a pleasant courtyard behind it. Only the French came there, mostly townsmen. Dick would sit all evening over a bottle of wine, talking to three girls who had rooms on the court. It eased his boredom to sit with the girls in the evening and kid with them. They were lately from Paris, he gathered. "For a little vacation in the provinces," they giggled. And Monsieur would please say nothing about it. Of course he would say nothing.

Eventually, he grew tired of this too; stayed away quite a while. His second request for a transfer had been turned down cold. And it was now nearly July. The big show was on along the Marne.

When he returned to the inn a few nights later, he found one of the girls was seriously ill. It was Thérése, the little one. They took him up to her room. She had been asking for him, they said.

"I am dying," she said to Dick. "It is the terrible pain in the side."

Appendicitis, he guessed.

"I must get to the hospital tonight," Thérése insisted.

"Tonight!" The others demurred. "We are out of our arrondissement," sobbed the other two girls. "We belong in Paris. We must not be discovered here. The police!"

It was some time before Dick realized that nobody was going to do anything, if he didn't. And what could he do?

"If the police come I shall certainly die, Monsieur," said Thérése.

He realized that that was probably true.

Certainly the police would do nothing to help her. What she needed was a surgeon. "I'll see," he promised.

He went into the dark street that descended past the inn in steep steps and stood trying to think. If there were only an American Croix Rouge here! But there wasn't. If he went to the American military medical authorities they could probably do nothing— for a woman. And his motives would certainly be misunderstood. Only trouble lay that way. Suddenly the thought of Major Constans, his instructor in strategy, came to mind. There was something warm and understanding about that little man. At least he could explain the situation to him. He ran hastily up the steps of the ancient street. It was late, but he routed the sergeant major out at Headquarters and got the major's address in town.

Half an hour later he was knocking at the doorway of a grand old residence in Langres. An orderly let him in.

Presently Major Constans came out. He put Dick at his ease immediately. "Ah, my youngest pupil," he said, laughing. "I am charmed that you have remembered to call upon me. Come, you must meet the General. Have you an American cigaret? Good! The General loves them." And before he knew it, Dick was being introduced to a French general with a white beard, obviously a retired veteran commanding a garrison, kindly, and with a twinkle in his eye.

Dick told his story. The two French officers laughed at his predicament. Dick's insistence that he was not particularly interested in Mademoiselle was peculiarly amusing to the Frenchmen.

"Shall we go and see for ourselves?" said the General. "But no! Major, it is plainly a case of the famous feeling humane of the Americans. Call the Civil Hospital."

There was a rapid conversation in sputtering French over the telephone by the major. Thérése was going to be taken care of, Dick gathered. Just then Madame Générale came in. Some wine and little cakes went around. Dick spent the only enjoyable evening he had passed in Langres.

It was just as he was leaving that Major Constans asked him an embarrassing question. "What are you doing in Langres, lieutenant?"

"I'm censoring mail," said Dick, and hung his head.

"Do you want to do that?" asked the major a bit coldly.

"My God, no!" cried Dick, and the whole miserable story of how he had been caught at Langres burst from him. Perhaps he went too far in mentioning Colonel Quincey. The French major's face darkened.

"That Napoleon!" he said. "Ah, I see. It is a pity for you. Something should be done about it, perhaps. Well, bon soir. And bonne chance." The major shook hands warmly, and the door closed. Dick found himself in the street again, but with a glow in his heart for the French army and the feeling of hope renewed.

Next afternoon, while he was sitting in his cubicle censoring mail, an orderly came for him, He was to report to Headquarters immediately.

"Say!" said the sergeant major as Dick entered. "Say, there was a frog major in here raising hell about you, lieutenant. He sure flew to it with the adjutant. And the adjutant don't want to see you no more. He said just to give you these orders. Good-by, lieutenant."

"Good-by?" said Dick incredulously. He snatched his papers. He had been ordered back to his own outfit at the front.

Two days later he was at Meaux clear on the other side of Paris. You could hear the big guns there at night. It was like the distant grumbling of surf on a barrier reef, and the horizon to the east was full of lightning. It was music and fireworks to Lieutenant Force.

Headquarters at Meaux were not certain of the exact whereabouts of Lieutenant Force's battalion. Fortunately for the lieutenant, the colonel to whom he reported there seemed to be a human being. After going back and forth into various offices, the colonel— Colonel Colson, Dick learned— appeared with the map upon which he marked division, brigade and regimental headquarters.

"In view of what's coming any moment, lieutenant, I think you'll want to be with your company without delay?" He looked over his glasses at Dick significantly. "I think your outfit must be about here." The colonel put his pencil on a little town called Fossoy along the bend of the Marne a few miles above Chateau-Thierry. "At any rate," he continued, "when you get in that neighborhood you can find where your outfit is by asking, and report to your major direct. What's his name?"

"Major H. C. Roberts," said Dick.

The colonel nodded. "That will get you back to your own company. That's right, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir,' said Dick. "And sir, I certainly appreciate—"

The colonel held up his hand. "Now if I were you," he continued, "I'd make for the river about here." He pointed to a place called Nogent. "You can then walk up the Paris aqueduct till you pick up hews of your outfit. It may be a little lively there, but it will save time."

"Could I have that map, sir?" asked Dick.

"Here, take it," said the colonel. "I'll just put the endorsement on the end of those orders you have, instead of writing out a new set. I'll take care that copies follow you up. We're hard-pressed here."

While the colonel was having the short paragraph added, Dick looked about him. The upper floor of the old casern was humming. Typewriters chattered like Machine guns; telephones jangled.

A door opened and a tall man with two Stars on his shoulders looked out, roaring for one Major Gear. That individual came running. The door slammed.

The colonel turned around in his chair. "All right," he said. He held out the orders. "These will do. Report to Major Roberts. Good luck, lieutenant."

Just then the door opened and Major Gear emerged and tore town the stairs.

"Follow him!" said the colonel. "He's going your way."

Dick turned and ran without saluting.

When he got into the street, Major Gear was just turning the next corner ahead.

Dick dashed after him. The major was getting into a gray car marked with the number of an ammunition train. Without explanation, Dick popped in beside the driver.

"Who the hell are you?" asked the major.

"I have orders to follow you, sir, as far as Nogent-l'Artaud," replied Dick. "Colonel Colson gave them to me verbally."

"Damn good guy, Colson," said the major. "Wish they were all like him. But we are not going as far as Nogent." Nothing more was said.

The car headed eastward out of Meaux. Dick looked back after a while. Major Gear was asleep.

"Can you take the wheel, lieutenant?" asked the driver suddenly. "I'm all in. There's a big drive coming. We don't seem to be able to get enough ammunition to the front to suit them. They got me and the old man wore out." He indicated the major with his thumb.

Dick shifted places with the driver.

"It's straight ahead, first right after the third village. You'll see the trucks parked in a bois. Step on it, sir."

The driver climbed back over the seat and did a huddle on the floor at the major's feet. He seemed to go to sleep instantly. Dick stepped on it.

The rows of poplars along the national route began to blur with speed. He was slowed down once for a long parade of French refugees, carts, wagons, bicycles, cows, goats, and a pitiful procession of tired women with babies and children.

The road was clear after that, except for sidecars or an Occasional automobile full of officers speeding past. Dick presently pulled off to the right as he had been directed. A newly worn track across a field heavily rutted led into a woods. He followed it, and found himself in a thick grove occupied by rows of big steamer trunks, piles of rifle ammunition, pup tents, and empty white-pine boxes that proclaimed the rendezvous and dump of the ammunition train.

HE BROUGHT the car to a stop before a group of officers near a cooker, piled out and waked the driver. When the major got up, the driver was in his seat again.

As soon as Major Gear emerged from his car, things started to happen. Orders were sent out to several other sections of the train in the near-by bois. The mess and pup tents folded up instanter. Every truck was loaded to capacity.

"We're not waitin' for night this time," said the major. "The Boches are coming over. They want this stuff at the front now, and they want it bad. Keep long interval. And if a shell gets a truck, bump it off the road and keep going, see! First section leads. out now." He started off in his car before Dick could catch him.

The big trucks began to roll out of the woods and onto the road. Dick hopped one near the lead with a sergeant in charge. It was from the sergeant that Dick received some idea of the vast preparations for meeting the oncoming German drive and for the counterattack.

There was something exhilarating in approaching the front this way, Dick found. The long serpent of trucks rose and dipped over the hills.

They were moving through an evacuated area. All the villages were deserted except for small squads in horizon-blue, knocking holes in houses for machine guns. Many of the towns already had concrete emplacements at vital points.

At one place they were halted a few minutes at a crossroads. In a field near by an American outfit was preparing to put up an observation balloon. Then they went on at greater speed. Presently, away on the horizon another balloon appeared.

There was a burst of archy— anti-aircraft shells— on the horizon; another.

"Here he comes!" said the sergeant.

A plane with a black cross on it came over the hills, flying low, and swooped down along the long line of trucks. There was the sudden chatter of its machine gun. Then it shot into the air again.

"He's just kidding us," said the driver. "He's after that balloon."

Dick looked out behind. They were pulling the balloon down but it was too late. The German plane suddenly came down out of a low cloud right above the balloon in a power dive, firing tracer bullets. The observer jumped. His parachute, as far as Dick could see, didn't open.

Smoke rolled from the balloon. Its hide began to come off like sections of orange peel. For a moment a white incandescent bulb of hydrogen hung in the sky, flamed. The basket plunged. A tremendous angry chattering of machine guns and archy broke out. The German plane shot high into the air, streaking back to the enemy lines. The German balloon was quickly hauled down.

A half-mile farther, shells began to fall in the field along the road ahead. The long convoy of trucks raced on. Suddenly the head of the column turned into a field and made for a dark line of forest on the crest just ahead.

"Guess we'll make it," said the driver.

The trucks continued to turn off to the right and race over the field into the forest ahead. For fifteen minutes the road beyond the place where they had just left the route was a cloud of white dust in which bright flashes and heavy detonations went up. A group of officers watched it from the crest of the woods. The unloading of the trucks began.

Dick asked Major Gear to show him where they were on the map. They were still eight kilometers from Nogent. Once there, he could strike south along the Paris aqueduct into the sector where his outfit was said to be. He could make it that night if he started at once.

He shook hands with the sergeant, shouldered his musette bag and took a short cut over the hill to strike the road ahead. Immediately his time calculations were thrown out. He struck a swampy place in a valley and it took him over an hour to get around it and gain the road, Once on that, it was plain sailing.

He was surprised to note that a gang of Frenchmen were already at work filling in the shell holes down the road. They dumped in gravel and smoothed it over. So that's what the small piles of stone along the road were for. The shell holes continued for several miles. Evidently the Germans had meant to get that truck train.

He looked back. Not a sign of life could be seen about the woods where the train had taken shelter. Major Gear evidently knew his business.

Only a vast silence broken by the mutter of distant man-made thunder, a vacant countryside that seemed to be gaping for him. The hills and tomb-like villages lay waiting for the Germans. The world had become vacant. Life had stopped. Into this vacant world Lieutenant Dick strode.

He never forgot that walk. It was his first impression of war. Surprising. In that lonely country sloping down to the Marne, he felt like a man who had committed some crime and was fleeing.

A moon nearly at the full began to climb slowly before him. The clear northern twilight deepened. The road seemed endless. About nine he came down into the valley of the Marne. The town of Nogent with its bridge, its vacant windows, houses with collapsed fronts, a shattered, lacy church steeple lay before him.

It was an eerie experience walking through that town. There was not a soul, not a light. The only sound was the yowling of cats and every few minutes a muffled roar as a shell fell into the river. The Germans were gunning for the bridge. It was there that he first saw people. A man and a woman were picking up fish killed by the explosions and putting them into a bag. Near the railroad station a light under a blanketed door caught his eye. He pushed the curtain aside and entered.

THE room was ablaze with light. It had originally been the bar of a large hotel. Now it was furnished royally with stuffed couches, gilded chairs, two pianos. The array of candelabra and kerosene lamps was astonishing. Piles of mattresses lay along the walls. There was a collection of oil paintings, music boxes, phonographs. A mahogany sideboard was covered with bottles of all kinds of liquors.

On the stone floor some poilus were cooking a meal over canned heat. A few were asleep on mattresses. Over this astonishing establishment presided a Frenchwoman of Herculean proportions with a mustache.

She received Dick with noncommittal chatter about the bad, very bad Boches. Twice she had left the town this war, she said. But would she leave it three times? No! Certainly there were no eggs. But for twenty-five francs she would provide a feast for a general, wines included. The lieutenant had best consider it. It might be his last meal. The Germans were coming soon,

It was true that this might be his last meal. At any rate, his last decent meal for a long time. And what good were francs to him? For twenty francs, then.

Yes, she would do it.

She disappeared into the kitchen. The French soldiers would answer no questions. Dick suspected they were A. W. O. L. They grunted and went on cooking.

The blanket was flung aside and a party of American M.P.'s stalked in. They were from Dick's division. Instead of trouble and explanations, it was a reunion, His company, he learned, was only a few miles away up the Marne. Everybody had a drink. Then the M.P's climbed into the sidecars and rolled on.

Madame appeared with a number of dishes containing an unbelievable meal. Dick fell to. He was ravenous.

He meant to push on after supper. It would be moonlight. But he was terribly sleepy. He must take at least a wink. He paid Madame, "Wake me at midnight," he said. She promised, He curled up on asofa and died to the world.

When he awakened daylight was streaming in through the shutters and there was no one about. The first thing he noticed was the appalling silence. He looked at his wrist watch. It was nearly noon. He shouted for Madame angrily. No answer, Everybody had gone.

When he stepped out into the street he realized he was the only person in the entire town. The bridge had been dynamited. And he had slept through it all, for almost twelve solid hours. He felt like a fool, but he also felt keen again. He helped himself to some canned goods from Madame''s collection, and started. It was the morning of July 14, 1918.

At that moment the guns on both sides had temporarily ceased. The sense of approaching crisis was overwhelming. Dick climbed the hill south of Nogent, struck the aqueduct and started south.

The Paris aqueduct is an immense brick tunnel buried deeply. The top of it makes a flat trace through the country-side. Here it ran up the valley along the hillsides above the railroad tracks. Occasionally there was a manhole and an iron ladder descending into the black brick tunnel below. The lids were off. Battered canteens and bloody bandages lay around, but there was nobody there any more.

Now Dick could see for miles up and down the Marne valley. Not the slightest sign of movement was to be observed anywhere.

Half an hour later he stumbled into a company of French infantry camped along the aqueduct. They were cooking "monkey meat." Yes, he was headed toward Fossoy. He pushed on. In a mile or two he found a company from his division. The Americans seemed to be in high spirits, almost too eager. The Boches were coming!

Dick pushed on again, and all that afternoon kept running across alternate units of French and Americans. The support line was, he learned, several miles behind the river. There the divisions were massed. His division was in this area— men with red keystones on their left arms.

The way to Fossoy by the aqueduct was much longer than he had thought. It ran off into the hills, and then it approached the river again. It was now nearly six. He stopped to consider a short cut. The railroad, perhaps. At that point it and the river lay almost directly below him. As he stood considering, an explosion threw him violently to the ground. A jet of white fire stabbed a hundred feet into the air. He lay collecting himself, for the moment completely deaf. After a while he thought he heard a locomotive. He peered into the railroad cut. An engine with a battleship gun on a flat car with a sleeping car behind it was backing into a tunnel. American blue-jackets were swabbing the gun.

Presently a Boche plane came over, evidently looking for the origin of big trouble. After a while the plane went back. Then the gun came out of the tunnel and raised itself to fire again.

Dick ran. He put a mile between himself and the explosion. A short while after sunset he came suddenly into a battery of French seventy-fives. Supper was going on. The guns were on a low hill in the woods and commanded a whole stretch of river clear upstream to the next bend of the Marne, miles away.

He stopped and asked his eternal question about Fossoy. Yes, it was just over there, la-bas. A French lieutenant insisted that Dick eat with him. Dick sat down.

Soon a French runner came out of the woods and delivered a message. And then Dick realized that the French could be in a hurry, too.

It was like lightning. Some of the officers shouted something. In less than a minute there was not a single man left in the battery. They left their supper still cooking. "Boches coming," was all Dick could gather, and they were gone. He stood there alone.

"Well, that's nice of them," he said.

He took his still frying steak, put it into a slab of bread and went on. He wished he were with his outfit now. Damn that sleep at Nogent! A short cut was certainly in order if he was going to get to Fossoy before midnight. He plunged into the woods below the aqueduct.

And from that time on everything went wrong.

There are very wild stretches of country in France, Dick had struck a prime example. He thrashed around through the woods for an incredible time. It grew pitch-dark, cloudy. It was nearly mid. night when he came out on a country lane with a small farmhouse on it. There was a crack of light under the door.

The moon came out suddenly then, bright enough to see across the Marne. The clouds drifted by. The Marne, only a mile away from where he stood, lay like a narrow metal road, sparkling. He could even see the two narrow streaks of silver that marked the railroad track along its bank, and in the distance a town. Fossoy probably, at long last.

It was a great relief to be out of the forest. Behind him, to the west, there was a constant flickering as of summer lightning, and a continual distant growling. Overhead, a noise as though railway trains were passing with occasional whistlings made the air tremble. All over the hills east of the Marne continual red splashes lighted the horizon. Searchlights fingered the sky. The wall of Allied cannon in the north and west lighted the heavens,

There was not a single reply from the German lines. The high scream and hurtling of shells overhead continued. And then, instantly, as if a switch had been pulled, it ceased.

Dick looked at his watch. It was midnight. It was so silent now, he hesitated to call to the people in the house. Finally he shouted in French.

The streak of light under the door went out. He knocked. After a while a French peasant, an old man, shaking and apparently witless, let him in. Dick wanted to know the road to Fossoy.

"Oh, yes," said the man. "Fossoy, Fossoy, là-bas, là-bas."' He waved his hand, taking in an arc of ninety degrees.

This was exasperating beyond words. Dick protested. Finally the old fellow gave a knowing look, disappeared in the cellar and came back with a bottle of wine. Evidently he thought wine the answer to everything. He was opening the bottle now. The cork came out with a pop. It seemed to be a ridiculous signal.

At that moment all the German artillery from Chateau-Thierry to Reims let loose on the other side of the Marne.

They stood amazed. The old man looked as though he had pulled all of this out of the bottle. He dropped the wine bottle on the floor and started to the door. They stood looking out. The German lines were incandescent. Half a mile down the road from the farmhouse rose an immense cloud of dust full of lightning and thunder, vast red splashes, fountains of stone and earth, and hurtling trunks of trees. It was advancing toward them in a rolling line of fire. Suddenly it jumped. It was a quarter of a mile nearer. The next jump would take in the house.

The old man began to make insane faces. A hurricane of screaming shells seemed to sow the fields about with whirlwinds. Pastures and woods near by burst into fountains of red fire. Dick saw the line of fire leap. There was a world-ending crash upstairs. Screaming, the old man dived down the stairs into the cellar. Dick plunged after him. The old man had disappeared. Dick lighted a match.

"Ici, ici!" shrieked the old man.

Blessed be the habits of living in France! There was an arched stone cavern for wine leading out of the cellar. Ten or twelve steps led down to it, it closed with an iron door. Dick popped into it and pulled the door shut behind him. An instant later there was an explosion that hurled him down the steps. He fell on his face and lay stunned.

Somebody was shrieking. Dick came to slowly. There was a choking reek of high explosives in his throat. Someone sprawled over him and fell headlong. It was the old Frenchman.

It was quiet outside, now, Dick noted. He must have been out a long while, for the barrage had stopped. His tin hat was under his face. It was full of blood, sticky. He felt himself. Just a bad cut on the forehead, his nose, still bleeding. The old man moved, shrieked again, and brought a slide of bottles down on him. Dick cursed him in good American and began to get up.

"For God's sake, who's down there?" said a tense voice outside.

"Lieutenant Force," answered Dick.

"Well, what d' you know about that!" exclaimed several voices at once.

"It's McLaughlin of L Company. Don't you remember me, lieutenant?" continued the first voice. "I didn't know you were back with the outfit yet."

"Stop chatting and get me out of this, you sap!" answered Dick, choking. "Can't you move that iron door? It's wedged."

Outside, there was a sound of earth and stones being shifted, the ripping of wood. The door was torn off its hinges by the eager men. Dick looked up and saw the moonlit sky. He struggled out into the open. The house was completely gone, Only the cellar hole remained.

He wiped his face and looked about. He recognized some of the men now. They were a party from a company of his own regiment, all laboring under terrible excitement. One of them was twitching.

"A shell tossed him," said McLaughlin. "But he's lucky, at that. I guess there ain't any L Company any more, lieutenant, We're a-ration detail. We was coming back with some hot cans for the outfit when the. barrage fell. It was the aqueduct saved us. We went down a man hole. After it was over, we come down and seen where the company was. Say! They're all gone. They was in that woods. Look at it, would you!"

Half a mile across the fields was a patch of woods, one wrecked tangle of uprooted trees. It looked like a forest on the edge of a volcano after an eruption.

"They're all dead in there," whispered McLaughlin. "I seen 'em." He was silent a moment. "There's nobody left. Then we come over here, remembering there was a house. Well, there wasn't no house. But this hole looked pretty good to us. Think they'll start shelling again?"

"No," said Dick. He didn't add that he thought the Germans would soon be seen ahead. That barrage could only mean a preparation for an attack. He looked at the gang in the cellar hole.

There were eight of them. They still had their rifles, bayonets fixed. Their slickers and bayonets glinted in the moonlight. Some of them still shivered from the shelling they had gone through. They looked benumbed and leaderless.

At that moment with a half-strangled scream the old Frenchman bolted out of the cellar and went bounding across the shell-pitted fields, hopping like a frog and croaking hoarsely. He disappeared in the infernal wood.

"He's nuts," said McLaughlin. "It's the old frog that used to sell wine here."

"He was a frog," said the man with the twitching face. "I seen him!"

Somebody laughed. The man with the twitching face began to laugh, too.

"Stop that!" barked Dick. He was amazed at the effect of his own voice. The squad gathered about him instantly. "Take off your slickers and unfix your bayonets," said Dick."They make marks of you in the moonlight. Listen, I'm in charge now. If anything happens to me, stick to McLaughlin. Keep together. Let's go!" Back in his mind was the determination to report to Major Roberts.

He led the way across the fields. The men trotted behind him. They struck a road and followed it to the aqueduct.

Just then all the east bank of the river burst into a display of fireworks. It was the same signal repeated all along the valley, two red stars with a blue in the middle. Dick thought he knew what that meant. The Germans were ready to cross.

"Come on," he said. He raced north along the aqueduct. If he could only find those abandoned guns, now that the Boches were beginning to cross!

Ahead of them they saw bayonets twinkling in the moonlight. They went flat. An American voice said something a few yards away. Dick called. It was a corporal and ten men.

"They are all dead in the valley," the corporal began. "The frogs beat it about sunset. The barrage fell. This is what's left of—"

"Never mind all that," said Dick. "Follow me." He started again at a run.

After a while he began to be afraid he had passed the place where the guns were. Then he saw them, the abandoned seventy-fives, still pointing up the river. He swerved his panting men toward them down the slope. They gathered about him.

"Anybody know anything about these guns?"

"Sure, lieutenant, we can fire them," said several. "I exchanged from an artillery outfit," said one man.

"Show them, then," said Dick. "I'm going to take a look up the river."

He went forward to the brow of the hill, used his glasses. It was still light enough, but in half an hour the moon would be gone, he guessed. The German bank of the river was covered with dark masses of men. At two points he could see the stub ends of a pontoon bridge beginning to stretch out into the bright water. He saw a third farther upstream.

A faint noise of hammering came up out of the valley from the pontoon sections, the crash of timbers. There was not a sound from the "American Bank." The greatest barrage of the war had done its work. Then Dick ran back and tried to show his men what to do about the guns, They were all infantrymen.

It was not the only time that night Dick was glad he was working with Americans. They seemed to pick up the way to work those guns instantly. They got three of them going. They concentrated on the place where the pontoons were creeping out across the river.

Once they shot the pontoons clear away. A wild cheer broke out. They rolled the guns down through the trees by hand, loading and firing on the recoil. They brought them as near to the banks of the river as they could and fired and fired. But the bridge began to grow again. It was almost across the river now.

How long they served the guns Dick never knew. He had lost all count of time, All that he remembers is McLaughlin grabbing his arm and pointing behind them, A dark mass of Germans was pouring down from the aqueduct. They had crossed farther down the river. A blast of rifle bullets swept through the battery. Most of the men dropped.

A bullet went through Dick's gas mask and ripped it open. For one instant he hesitated, but there was only one way to go—down toward the river and along the railroad tracks. He shouted and started with McLaughlin. Some were still left to follow, he saw. They plunged into the railroad cut ahead. Behind, there was a fierce outburst of bombs, shots, screams, and then a roar of grenades. One of the seventy-fives spoke once. That was the last gun. Some of them had stuck by it. Now there was nothing but silence.

As they raced south along the railroad, however, grenades fell into the cut behind them in showers.

The pontoons they had recently been firing at were only a few hundred yards up the river. It would be necessary to pass that point before the Germans could get their bridge across. From the top of the tracks Dick actually caught a glimpse of the last pontoon sections being floated into place. It was just as he thought. There was a road there that went down to the river at right angles to the tracks. A culvert took it under the railroad. He cut down to the inner side of the railroad embankment. The railroad and its fill was now between him and the river. The men gathered about him,

"Sneak by that culvert ahead, one by one," Dick said. "McLaughlin says there's a lot of concrete arches over a creek about a mile ahead up the line. Keep along this side of the railroad until you come to the first arch. We'll gather there. But wait until the moon has gone."

Those moments of intense waiting were the hardest of all. They could hear the German officers urging their men on, the last pontoons being locked into place. The moon dipped. Darkness came with a swoop.

"Quiet," Dick cautioned. "Now— go."

He led the way. They eased over the road past the culvert one by one and continued along the ditch of the railroad. The fill was like a high entrenchment here running along the river. Dick drew his pistol. He didn't know what he might run into. Presently they saw the concrete arches glimmering white.

Dick dashed under the first culvert he came to. The others gathered about him. There were only nine of them now. He went up on the track to have a look. They were in a hollow where a stream ran under the railroad and into the river beyond. It was low water now. One arch, the middle oné, took care of it. The rest must be for floods.

Dick listened intently. Somewhere up the river he could hear the sound of the work on the pontoons. They were not quite over yet, he judged. A blue rocket pierced the darkness in the direction from which they had just come. It broke into a shower of white stars. For a few seconds the river there was illuminated. He caught a glimpse of the solid column of men crossing the bridge; black masses moving down to it on the opposite bank.

Darkness resumed. That rocket must be the signal that they had crossed. A low rumble of wheels crossing the pontoons now drifted up the river. Probably artillery. He was nicely trapped here, he thought, between two columns of the German advance. Just then he heard voices from under his feet. He slid down the bank and was met by McLaughlin.

"Lieutenant," he said, "there's a lot of our guys under the culverts. It's what's left of a machine-gun outfit. Lots of 'em are wounded."

"Any officers?" asked Dick hopefully.

"Captain Lasson, but he's dead."

Dick went down the line of arches rapidly. He ventured to use his pocket flash. Thirty-six men in all had taken refuge here. Of these, nine were too badly wounded to be moved. The barrage had caught them camped in the woods. Seeing that the riverbank was not under heavy fire, some had run forward and crawled under the arches. Captain Lasson had come out to have a look from the tracks. He never saw what he found.

The equipment, Dick found, was in a terrible mess. The wounded lay wallowing on bloody blankets. There were only about twenty rifles, a few cans of iron rations, a machine gun, the old water-cooled kind, with about twenty belts of ammunition.

Under the last arch were five wounded men and a railroad handcar. Dick distributed a precious pack of cigarets to these wounded men. That was all he had. It was the railroad handcar that gave him the idea— and the singing. Downriver, that part of the German column which had crossed the bridge had broken into a marching hymn. "A Mighty Fortress is our God," they sang. They were across the Marne again, on the way to Paris.

Dick put the singing, the handcar and the machine gun together in a mental sum— and the bridge just up the river that was not quite finished yet. His mind raced. He and McLaughin started to act.

They pulled the men out from under the arches and lined them up in the ditch, distributing rifles, ammunition and canteens. Dick detailed a gang to get the handcar up on the track, and another to put the machine gun on the car. He picked a crew of five to work the gun.

"Now, sergeant," said he, promoting then take the rest of this gang into the woods and wait for me. If I'm not back in an hour, head back from the river and try to reach our lines, The Germans are on both sides of you, on parallel roads. We're in between them, do you get me?"

"Yes, sir. But where are you going, lieutenant?"

"I'm going up the track on the handcar and fire all the ammunition we have for the machine gun at the bridge they're still working on. I'm going to stop them singing up there."

A chorus of "at-a-boys" greeted this.

"Now, keep. quiet and get into the woods," said Dick. "Get going!"

He climbed up the railroad embankment. The handcar with the machine and its gang were waiting.

They started. The wheels squealed. Dick gritted his teeth. Then, as the men on the hand bars pumped harder and harder, the squealing died away. Only the rails clicked rapidly past. It was a little upgrade. They came out of the mist suddenly, going fast now. The track glimmered ahead and the river below on the left.

"Ready on the brakes," said Dick.

"You betta," replied an Italian voice.

Someone chuckled. They were moving like hell now. Suddenly they ran into a deep cut. It was nearly half a mile long. As Dick saw the opening ahead, he called for the brakes. They nosed out carefully on the other side. A long curve lay before them, The tracks began to hug the river.

In the bend ahead Dick could make out the line of pontoons, a dark streak across the water. Quite near the bank was a dark mass of men working frantically. A few minutes more and contact would be made. It was exactly one-forty, Dick noticed, looking at his wrist. He brought the car to a stop.

"Now, men," said he, "we are going to ease out on the bend there— and get 'em! We'll fire and beat it back into the cut if we have to. Let's go."

The car moved cautiously out on the long curve, edging its way nearer to the river. The German work party at the bridgehead was a plain dark mass now. The brakes squealed. The machine gun tore loose. They ran a belt through. The dark mass on the bridgehead had melted.

"Fire along the line of the bridge now. Keep your sights right on it," said Dick. That took two more belts.

Rifle bullets began to sing about them.

The firing outlined the enemy on the opposite bank.

Dick stopped firing and shifted position. They ran the car up the track several hundred yards. I'll make them think the whole bank's lined with machine guns here, he thought. They can see us only when we fire.

"Now this time," he said, "aim at the opposite bank at the approach to the bridge. They must be packed in there, waiting to cross."

To make sure, he sighted the gun himself. They fired five belts and shifted ground again, back toward the cut.

They could see no details in the darkness, but the confusion about the bridge was terrific. A section of pontoons broke away and started to drift downstream. Then the gun jammed.

"Back into the cut!" shouted Dick.

They fairly whisked back. The high sheltering banks there felt like home. Then they began a mad fight with the jammed machine gun. It had to be taken down and built up again. It took a dreadful quarter of an hour! Trench-mortar shells began to fall along the curve ahead. Only the cut saved them. The pontoons were nearing the bank again. The Germans were working frantically.

"Ready?" said Dick.

Then they took that car out on the curve and turned loose again. They fired all but two belts. It was the curve that saved them. The Germans couldn't see. Then a searchlight was turned full on the car. A hurricane of rifle fire screamed around. The gun jammed again.

"Jump down behind the track!" roared Dick.

The whole crew slid down the embankment like one man. A storm of bullets passed overhead. On the top of the fill, the handcar and jammed machine gun stood out in the glare of the searchlight.

Shells would get it soon. Dick started the men back for the cut, keeping the embankment between him and the river.

"Lieutenant, lieutenant!" cried someone, grabbing his arm. "I climba up der and giva da car a poosh. She go downa hill into the cut herself."

The little Italian climbed the embankment before Dick could say anything. He stood for an instant in the full glare of the searchlight. Then he fell forward, grabbed the brake and began to push. The car moved. That was all Dick saw.

A salvo of trench-mortar shells began to register on both sides of the track. Dick raced after the men toward the cut. The night seemed to be exploding in fountains of fire. Directly ahead of him one of the men was blown to pieces. He disappeared in a white flash. Two bombs he was carrying went off at the same time. Dick was knocked down. He scrambled up and darted into the cut.

He found three men waiting there. The view on the tracks behind them was now incandescent. It was under the flash of exploding shells that they saw the car. It was coming toward them downhill. The Italian was still lying on it. The hand bars worked up and down alone.

It gathered speed and came clicking along the rails into the cut. Outside, the searchlight kept looking for it. They climbed on it and in the leaping shadows of the shellfire laid the little Italian in the ditch by the track. The top of his head was missing. Then they threw the useless machine gun overboard and start ed down the track like mad, heading for the culverts.

It was all downgrade now. The rails hummed. The searchlight kept fooling about the mouth of the cut behind them. Presently they roared out on the arches and brought the car to a halt.

"Throw her off the rails," said Dick, "and carry her back under the arches. No use advertising where we left the tracks."

It was hard work with only a few men. As they struggled to roll the car into the ditch a blue rocket that broke into white flares rose from the river behind the cut. A full three miles away, Dick noticed. That rocket meant the Germans were across now. But there would be no singing at that bridge, he thought. They would still be looking for him.

He warned the wounded to keep hidden under the arches. Then he led what was left of the "car gang" into the woods on the land side of the railroad.

There were several square miles of woods, lying between the main roads that led away from the valley. It was a dense European beech forest, and terrible going at night, but there were some paths through it, he found. It was nearly three in the morning when he finally found McLaughlin in an open space under some large trees. It was possible to see now. There was artificial light, gun flashes, a constant glare of cannon. Some miles up the valley, Chinese New Year's had broken out on a mighty scale. It occurred to Dick that somewhere up there Major Roberts had his headquarters.

There was something fantastic about the story of the next few days. Living took on the quality of a nightmare adventure in Ogreland. Part of this was due to the fact that nobody had enough sleep and there was nothing to eat. The rest can be laid to the possibility of death or disaster at any moment. The unexpected and improbable became merely casual.

More can happen to a man in a few days in wartime than in all the rest of his life. That is the sensation of war— an overwhelming, unremitting, disastrous stream of events. One lives in the midst of lightning at lightning speed. Dick was now in the midst of it. Lightning fell about him on all sides. The night of July 15, 1918, was the supreme crisis of the first World War. Dick climbed a high tree to look at it. There was plenty of light, diabolical light.

He saw that he was in the middle of a section of forest. It stretched from the river inland for many miles. On each side were roads, and flowing westward on these, nach Paris, were endless German columns, Up the vale, they were butting their heads into the main American and French lines, massed divisions, and were not moving them. For that reason the sky was on fire there.

And in the midst of the valley, dotted here and there, were villages, each being held desperately, although ringed about by fire. Dick's view westward was, therefore, a scene of several villages "on fire" in the valley, and a spreading outburst of fire farther back in the hills where the Germans were trying to crash through the main Allied lines.

But that was not all.

The entire sky was aflame, running in smears of molten red and white-hot light. The clouds glowed. The earth shuddered. Four hundred miles of cannon had turned loose. It was the beginning of the great Allied attack that ceased only with the Armistice. Dick did not realize that till months later. All he knew then was that something tremendous was on.

Just as he started to climb down, a furious fight broke out at a village five miles up the valley. That, according to his map, must be Cresanzy, he thought. That was where Major Roberts was. He could still hear Colonel Colson saying, "Report to Major Roberts." There was something grimly amusing in that idea now. Report to Major Roberts, eh? Orders.

Dick found he had been aloft about half an hour. He had climbed up, confused even as to his whereabouts. He came down with a plan of where he was and what to do. A dim plan, but a plan. During his time in the tree five new men had come wandering in out of the darkness. They were a detail from a signal company that had been caught out.

"Welcome, soldiers," said Dick.

Then he spread the gang out in a rough circle to keep watch and try to catch a nap. Not very successfully. The day with all its troubles was soon upon them.

They found they were in a comparatively open space. Any plane that came over would spot them, Dick moved them forward half a mile under the denser trees.

It was now nearly two days since anybody had had a meal. With no officers about, iron rations had been wolfed or wasted. What rations remained, they had left with the wounded under the arches by the railroad. There were scarcely five cans left in the whole outfit. Also, the sky was full of planes that morning. A series of dog fights was on overhead. They were safe enough under the trees, The main battle ahead seemed to have growled itself out about noon.

About four o'clock they began to move forward again. They moved like an Indian war party, every man a scout, Finally they struck a narrow road crossing the forest. And along it came a German patrol, six men under a sergeant, dragging a small machine gun on wheels.

They killed these men with bayonets in one rush out of the woods. It was instant surprise and complete massacre. They went on, taking the machine gun on the "baby-carriage" with them.

They pushed on for a considerable distance. Then they came to a wheat field and a ruined house. The barrage had evidently commenced to fall about here. Beyond the house the woods were a vast tangle of trees tossed in all directions. Then something inexplicable happened.

Coming down the lane toward the ruined farmhouse, they saw a magnificent German staff car. A party of staff swells in light gray Prussian overcoats emerged from it. There was a driver and two orderlies,

Dick could see all this plainly with a glass from the edge of the wheat field. He waited with his heart in his mouth for the Germany army to follow its generals. No one came. The officers got out and went into the house. The orderlies carried in a tea basket. Dick held on for an hour. Then he sent McLaughlin forward, with ten men. It was just about dark when everybody taking tea in the house was suddenly killed. One officer had time to fire one shot. He got his man.

They stayed part of the night at the house. The car was full of maps and papers. The officers were a colonel and a major. Dick still thinks they had turned off the road for a quiet "picnic." There was enough in the tea basket to give half sandwich to every man. The major had a case of long Egyptian cigarets. Dick smoked them thoughtfully. They were very stale. He had the car pushed into the cellar of the house and the dead Germans carried down, too, out of sight.

At dawn he started forward again into the devastated forest. They came to place where an American company of infantry had been annihilated. Dick knew the faces. It was a company from his own regiment.

Everybody now had a rifle, There were plenty lying loose and plenty of ammunition.

All that afternoon they crept on through the devastated forest. It was like a place just a few miles outside of hell, Dick halted toward sunset.

He sent out the best men to see what was going on along the roads. They came pack in an hour. There was nothing on the roads; no one!

That night there was firing ahead. Then they heard the noises on the roads again, a constant rolling of traffic. Dick crawled through the forest with McLaughlin before morning broke. They lay watching in the thicket till dawn came. They could just make out the German columns in the mist. The Germans were going back toward the Marne. Up the valley artillery began to talk loudly.

The news of the German retreat which Dick and McLaughlin brought back to the half-starved crowd hiding out in the blasted forest was the next best thing to a meal. It heartened them, but Dick knew it would be essential to get food soon.

They filled their bellies and canteens with water at a foul spring and pushed on. It was slow and grim going. Also, there were noises ahead of them now. They worked forward cautiously. As Dick had feared, there was a road ahead that ran across the forest. And there was traffic on it. He crawled forward to see.

They had come almost to the end of their wooded tract of country. Across the road was another patch of forest, but a small one. The barrage had ceased about here. The trees in the patch of woods ahead still stood unharmed. But then the land sloped rapidly down to a stream, and there the cover ended. Beyond was wide-open country, and about half a mile away across the stream a hamlet of six or seven houses and a church.

The road just ahead was the principal trouble now. Parties of Germans kept coming along it. About sunset a column of troops appeared. A small party fell out and entered the woods. Then a curious thing happened.

They began to chain a man to a tree behind him and left. Dick put the glasses on him and saw a small machine gun, piles of ammunition, and a few cans of rations. The man sat there. The column disappeared, and the man lighted a pipe. A thoroughly German arrangement for a rear-guard defense, thought Dick. Machine gunners who could not retreat.

He would have to get that man. He commanded the road with his machine gun. It was a good six hundred yards to the tree to which the man was chained— and getting dark. A burst of machine-gun fire would bring an army down upon them here. They might risk one shot, but there must be only one. Dick borrowed McLaughlin's rifle. Looking along the sights, he realized what the past few days had done to him. His hands trembled. He summoned all his reserves and held steady. The rifle cracked. The way was clear. When they passed the man, his pipe was still smoking.

The patch of woods ahead covered only a few hundred acres. Dick determined to spend the night there. As he motioned the men into this last bit of forest, he saw a piece of something white being raised on a stick. Somebody called, "Don't shoot, lieutenant! We're coming over to you." A couple of Americans came forward.

"My God, it's Lieutenant Force!" said one of them. Dick recognized him. He was a sergeant in his own company, Bill Williams, a young lawyer from Mapleville, Pennsylvania.

"What the hell are you doing here, Bill?" asked Dick faintly.

"Playin' poker with the Boches," said Williams. "I've got forty-three of the old outfit in these woods and the Heinies have been passing by us for two days."

"Have you anything to eat?" said Dick.

"Have we? Boy, we're a battalion ration dump."

And as it turned out later, that's what the woods had been used for.

Half an hour afterward Dick found himself sitting like Robin Hood in the midst of his men and in the middle of what Sergeant Williams called "an elegant first-class patch of timber." Dick was wolfing things out of cans. So were the thirty-eight men he had brought with him. With Sergeant Williams' forty-three, that made eighty-one. The men from the platoon of his own company kept coming up to wring his hand.

"You're the only officer we've got left," they kept saying. "Say, those birds you brought in told us about the machine gun on the handcar. Say, lieutenant..."

Dick listened to Sergeant Williams' story. The sergeant had been sent back from Fossoy with a platoon of the old company to hold the village across the stream. "You may have seen it there just across the creek," said he.

Dick said he had.

"Well, when the barrage fell it didn't reach our city," said Williams. "They shelled farther up the valley and below, but not here. Some hours after the barrage fell, three of the men from the platoons below got through to us. They said the whole outfit was killed or taken prisoner— and that the German army was coming. The French got orders to fall back to the main lines about sunset that day. Well, we didn't get any orders. We were just left. The frogs beat it."

"I'll say they did," said Dick, remembering the battery. "Something must have gone wrong with liaison."

"Something went awful wrong," agreed Williams. "I wouldn't be somebody at G.H.Q. along about now for anything."

"No," said Dick. "But what did Sergeant Williams do?"

"Why, it sounds dumb, it's so simple. I just moved out of the great metropole across the stream there and up into these woods. That's two nights ago. Since then we've watched German divisions go by us nach Paris. And today they are all passing us again— nach Berlin. They ran into big trouble ahead. I think by tomorrow they'll be back over the Marne again. And I'll bet our people reoccupy Cresanzy tomorrow night. It's only a few miles ahead."

"Cresanzy!" exclaimed Dick. "I have orders to report to Major Roberts there."

"Well, you're commanding officer now, sir," said Williams a little ironically. "Maybe you're major of the battalion. Due to a French liaison."

"All right, sergeant, suppose you let the commanding Officer get a bit of sleep. But don't forget to send out and get that machine gun away from the man chained to the tree. We might need it. Anyway, that will give us two."

Dick went to sleep. The sergeant got the machine gun, the ammunition, too, and a fine meerschaum pipe.

A nice sleep in the beautiful woods proved out of the question, however. About three that morning shells began to sail into that small patch of shelter. It was their own artillery, too. The Americans were hastening the Germans' departure by a concentration of fire. In twenty minutes Dick had lost eight men. It was still dark and the 220's fell in the forest, setting it on fire. It was get out, and get out quick.

They emerged in the fields. Dick was proud of the men; there was no confusion.

It was much better in the fields. The fire was being concentrated on the woods and particularly on the roads. Across the stream the hamlet seemed to be tossing itself into the air. They formed a skirmish line in the dark and moved downhill through the orchards and meadows with machine guns and automatic rifles on the flanks. Williams led the advance party. They were making for Cresanzy.

"Going to report to Major Roberts, I suppose?" said Williams a bit sarcastically as they halted to compare notes.

"That's the idea," snapped Dick— his nerves weren't so good now. It had been necessary to leave the wounded.

"My brother's there. You know Jim, lieutenant. He'll bleed to death!" said one young fellow, appealing to Dick, who had enlisted him and his brother.

"Sorry, Jack. Haven't you heard? The United States is at war with Germany."

They had carried all the wounded they could find out of the burning woods and left them in a ditch in the field. Dick couldn't help it. He was determined to fight his way through the retreating Germans and reach the American lines. It took two men to carry a wounded man, and he had only sixty some left now. So they moved on toward Cresanzy.

The confusion along the roads among the Germans was fearful. They were literally being blasted back to the Marne.

Toward dawn small parties of Germans began to appear from time to time in the fields ahead. Some of these they avoided. But three times that morning they cleared their way with the bayonet. It was quicker and made less noise.

A little after dawn they found themselves along a stone wall on the crest of a small rise overlooking Cresanzy. The best thing was that they were out of the zone of their own artillery, The fire of the American guns was now following the Germans as they fled toward the Marne. Dick's party were in time to see the last of the Boche leaving Cresanzy.

The survivors of Dick's motley command lay along the wall. Dick counted fifty-four, besides himself, Sergeant Williams and McLaughlin. He talked the situation over with Williams. Should they go on, or try to take over at Cresanzy? It seemed better to wait their opportunity and get into the town. There would be ample shelter in the cellars.

"And there's probably no one left in Cresanzy now," said Williams, "except some machine gunners and snipers. They always leave them to delay the advance."

As soon as the shelling let up on Cresanzy Dick was going into it from the rear. They won't expect that, he thought. We'll clear out the snipers and hold the place until our people appear.

The American artillery, however, continued to shell Cresanzy enthusiastically all day long. At nightfall Dick took his party "by the back door," into Cresanzy. The shelling had been gradually abating since four o'clock. He sat down in a cellar and wrote a brief message, saying he was in the town. He gave that to a man to carry to the American lines if he could. Dick never saw the man again.

The next two days were indescribable. Cresanzy was a large town, and it had been occupied by both the Americans and the Germans. It was full of the half-wrecked equipment of both armies. A battalion of Americans and a regiment of Germans had left their dead behind them. The place had been shelled into a shambles: streets of empty houses with collapsed roofs and fronts ripped open. The large church in the town square stood with one side cracked open; a vision of a large painting of Christ on the Cross looked out over the shivered roofs and gazed at the gentle work of his followers in the year 1918. In the courtyard of the town hall, twelve horses. their eyes swollen shut with gas, milled about miserably. Dick had them shot.

Through this nightmarish town they hunted German snipers and machine guns for twenty-four hours. Nearly a third of them were either killed or wounded in this man hunt. Dick was shot in the left arm. By evening of the second day they had the town cleaned, except for one man they couldn't locate. Every hour or so he got one of them. He got poor McLaughlin through the head as he dashed up the steps of the town hall. Finally they got that German. He was inside a factory chimney high up. They built a fire in the grate underneath.

After that it was "quiet." Only a shell or so came over now and then. Every hour Dick expected to have the Americans take the town over,

He was in a curious state of mind now, completely worn down nervously, and weak from loss of blood. Without Williams, he couldn't have carried on.

He had set up "headquarters" in the cellar of the town hall. The public buildings built of heavy stone had the safest cellars. That last day, with the snipers gone, Dick started to wander about.

He had become greatly worried about not being able to report to Major Roberts. He was, so he hinted to Williams, disobeying orders. Williams tried to reassure him, but the idea kept recurring.

That afternoon Dick's arm gave him no rest. He went upstairs into the town hall and wandered about. Both American and German headquarters had been set up there in what was the former mayors office. There were German telephones and American typewriters. An idea occurred to Dick. He would write his report to Major Roberts. He called Williams.

"A great idea," said Williams. Maybe it will get it out of his head, he thought.

Williams selected some paper. He typed well. Dick began. He told the whole story. Williams finally put the sheets into an envelope addressed to Major Roberts. He handed the envelope to Dick.

"Feel better now?" asked Williams.

Dick nodded. "I can give it to him now," he said. "Now he'll understand what I've been doing."

Williams shook his head. "I'm afraid not," he said.

"Why not?" asked Dick. "It's all here, isn't it?" He tapped the envelope.

"Major Roberts is in that room at the end of the hall," said Williams, pointing.

Dick wasn't at all astonished. "Then I'll report now," he said.

Williams rose in alarm. He hadn't realized how much sleep Dick had lost. He had thought he would understand. But Dick was going toward the back room, Williams followed him. He knew what was in the room. Dick opened the door.

In the back room a man was sitting next to a window on a small chair, putting his boots on. One boot was already on. The other with its spur sticking out stood by the chair, and his hands were on it. This officer had gold leaves on his shoulder. His face was gone.

"It's Roberts, all right,'' whispered Williams. "Look at the name in the boots."

They both-stood there a moment. Dick saluted. To this day he doesn't know exactly why he did that.

If the lieutenant is as bad as that, thought Williams, I'd better detail somebody to watch him. I hope to God there'll be a medical man in here tomorrow.

There was. They sent Dick to Base Hospital 68 near Nevers. Two months later he was back with his outfit in the Argonne. It wasn't the old outfit any more, but he got his captain's bars just the same.

It was Williams who brought the "Report to Major Roberts" back to the States. He had taken it from Dick before he went to the hospital. Williams always regarded it as quite a document. So does Dick, now. What he would like to know most is what the Intelligence Department found in the German staff car in the cellar of the old farmhouse.

The night of the Armistice Captain Richard Force happened to be in the American hospital in Paris. He had been wounded again, this time in the foot. He was able to get about with a cane.

There was no false Armistice celebrated in Paris. When it did come, it came as a surprise, as a relief and a release beyond description. People thought the war was over; that Germany was finally conquered. But when the guns at the Invalides began to boom out, Captain Force and the rest of the officers in the convalescent ward thought it must be an air raid. The voice of the guns went on announcing, "Victory, victory, peace, peace."

The streets filled with the sound of voices hysterical with joy, and the rush of running feet. The women came out and the children— one had forgotten about them. That night the lights came on. Paris was delirious.

Captain Force and another wounded officer hired a fiacre. They drove into streets that rang with the sound of the great world's city of the Allies celebrating its redemption and release. Caught in the river of human beings, the old sway-back horse, the fiacre with its faded plum-colored upholstery, its bulbous-nosed driver with a high tin hat painted black, were surrounded and engulfed. They moved slowly with the surge of the crowd. Before the Café of the Peace they came to a stop. A crowd of girls surroundded the carriage, insisting upon kissing the wounded officers, plundering them of their insignia, and making the old horse sneeze with confetti. Suddenly there was a scream.

"Ah, mon ami, it's you, it's you!" and someone was sitting on Dick's knee.

It was Thérése, the girl he had sent to the hospital at Langres.

"It was you, my captain, saved my life; you who made it possible for me to return to my arrondissement, to Paris. Where are the others? Ah, who knows? But I am here! And it is peace again. I am sure of it, for once again I am very hungry. It is fate that I should find you when I am so hungry."

Dick took the hint. They went into the Café of the Peace, and by vast luck and huge bribery secured a table. "Make way for the wounded!" A shower of confetti fell on them. They sat and ate and drank. At the cost of many francs the driver in the painted tin hat was fed dainties while waiting outside. He drank to them through the window. The Armistice roared about them. The gray eyes of Thérése grew misty with food, wine and gratitude. Her heart overflowed.

"Ah, it is a pity you are wounded," she said; "especially it is a pity tonight. There will never be another night like this in the world."

Early in the morning they tried to drive back to the hospital. Slowly they worked through the crowds. At the corner of a street Thérése left them. She stood by the old fiacre, tears in her eyes.

"You go back to America, but I shall never forget."

"Good-by!" said Dick, patting her hand. "I won't be seeing you again."

"But who knows?" she cried. "And next time you will be a colonel. So I will not say good-by, my captain. Au revoir."

She disappeared in the crowd. Looking back, they saw her put her hands on the shoulders of a tall Australian and leap up and down, crying "Au revoir."

And lately Dick has begun to wonder who was right, now the lights are out in Paris again and the Armistice is over.

_______________________

2: The Story of a Young Robber

Washington Irving

1783-1859

Tales of a Traveller 1824

I WAS BORN at the little town of Frosinone, which lies at the skirts of the Abruzzi. My father had made a little property in trade, and gave me some education, as he intended me for the church, but I had kept gay company too much to relish the cowl, so I grew up a loiterer about the place. I was a heedless fellow, a little quarrelsome on occasions, but good-humored in the main, so I made my way very well for a time, until I fell in love. There lived in our town a surveyor, or land bailiff, of the prince's who had a young daughter, a beautiful girl of sixteen. She was looked upon as something better than the common run of our townsfolk, and kept almost entirely at home. I saw her occasionally, and became madly in love with her, she looked so fresh and tender, and so different to the sunburnt females to whom I had been accustomed.

As my father kept me in money, I always dressed well, and took all opportunities of showing myself to advantage in the eyes of the little beauty. I used to see her at church; and as I could play a little upon the guitar, I gave her a tune sometimes under her window of an evening; and I tried to have interviews with her in her father's vineyard, not far from the town, where she sometimes walked. She was evidently pleased with me, but she was young and shy, and her father kept a strict eye upon her, and took alarm at my attentions, for he had a bad opinion of me, and looked for a better match for his daughter. I became furious at the difficulties thrown in my way, having been accustomed always to easy success among the women, being considered one of the smartest young fellows of the place.

Her father brought home a suitor for her; a rich farmer from a neighboring town. The wedding-day was appointed, and preparations were making. I got sight of her at her window, and I thought she looked sadly at me. I determined the match should not take place, cost what it might. I met her intended bridegroom in the market-place, and could not restrain the expression of my rage. A few hot words passed between us, when I drew my stiletto, and stabbed him to the heart. I fled to a neighboring church for refuge; and with a little money I obtained absolution; but I did not dare to venture from my asylum.

At that time our captain was forming his troop. He had known me from boyhood, and hearing of my situation, came to me in secret, and made such offers that I agreed to enlist myself among his followers. Indeed, I had more than once thought of taking to this mode of life, having known several brave fellows of the mountains, who used to spend their money freely among us youngsters of the town. I accordingly left my asylum late one night, repaired to the appointed place of meeting, took the oaths prescribed, and became one of the troop. We were for some time in a distant part of the mountains, and our wild adventurous kind of life hit my fancy wonderfully, and diverted my thoughts. At length they returned with all their violence to the recollection of Rosetta. The solitude in which I often found myself gave me time to brood over her image, and as I have kept watch at night over our sleeping camp in the mountains, my feelings have been roused almost to a fever.

At length we shifted our ground, and determined to make a descent upon the road between Terracina and Naples. In the course of our expedition, we passed a day or two in the woody mountains which rise above Frosinone. I cannot tell you how I felt when I looked down upon the place, and distinguished the residence of Rosetta. I determined to have an interview with her; but to what purpose? I could not expect that she would quit her home, and accompany me in my hazardous life among the mountains. She had been brought up too tenderly for that; and when I looked upon the women who were associated with some of our troop, I could not have borne the thoughts of her being their companion. All return to my former life was likewise hopeless; for a price was set upon my head. Still I determined to see her; the very hazard and fruitlessness of the thing made me furious to accomplish it.

It is about three weeks since I persuaded our captain to draw down to the vicinity of Frosinone, in hopes of entrapping some of its principal inhabitants, and compelling them to a ransom. We were lying in ambush towards evening, not far from the vineyard of Rosetta's father. I stole quietly from my companions, and drew near to reconnoiter the place of her frequent walks.

How my heart beat when, among the vines, I beheld the gleaming of a white dress! I knew it must be Rosetta's; it being rare for any female of the place to dress in white. I advanced secretly and without noise, until putting aside the vines, I stood suddenly before her. She uttered a piercing shriek, but I seized her in my arms, put my hand upon her mouth and conjured her to be silent. I poured out all the frenzy of my passion; offered to renounce my mode of life, to put my fate in her hands, to fly with her where we might live in safety together. All that I could say, or do, would not pacify her. Instead of love, horror and affright seemed to have taken possession of her breast. She struggled partly from my grasp, and filled the air with her cries. In an instant the captain and the rest of my companions were around us. I would have given anything at that moment had she been safe out of our hands, and in her father's house. It was too late. The captain pronounced her a prize, and ordered that she should be borne to the mountains. I represented to him that she was my prize, that I had a previous claim to her; and I mentioned my former attachment. He sneered bitterly in reply; observed that brigands had no business with village intrigues, and that, according to the laws of the troop, all spoils of the kind were determined by lot. Love and jealousy were raging in my heart, but I had to choose between obedience and death. I surrendered her to the captain, and we made for the mountains.

She was overcome by affright, and her steps were so feeble and faltering, and it was necessary to support her. I could not endure the idea that my comrades should touch her, and assuming a forced tranquility, begged that she might be confided to me, as one to whom she was more accustomed. The captain regarded me for a moment with a searching look, but I bore it without flinching, and he consented, I took her in my arms: she was almost senseless. Her head rested on my shoulder, her mouth was near to mine. I felt her breath on my face, and it seemed to fan the flame which devoured me. Oh, God! to have this glowing treasure in my arms, and yet to think it was not mine!

We arrived at the foot of the mountain. I ascended it with difficulty, particularly where the woods were thick; but I would not relinquish my delicious burthen. I reflected with rage, however, that I must soon do so. The thoughts that so delicate a creature must be abandoned to my rude companions maddened me. I felt tempted, the stiletto in my hand, to cut my way through them all, and bear her off in triumph. I scarcely conceived the idea, before I saw its rashness; but my brain was fevered with the thought that any but myself should enjoy her charms. I endeavored to outstrip my companions by the quickness of my movements; and to get a little distance ahead, in case any favorable opportunity of escape should present. Vain effort! The voice of the captain suddenly ordered a halt. I trembled, but had to obey. The poor girl partly opened a languid eye, but was without strength or motion. I laid her upon the grass. The captain darted on me a terrible look of suspicion, and ordered me to scour the woods with my companions, in search of some shepherd who might be sent to her father's to demand a ransom.

I saw at once the peril. To resist with violence was certain death; but to leave her alone, in the power of the captain!—I spoke out then with a fervor inspired by my passion and my despair. I reminded the captain that I was the first to seize her; that she was my prize, and that my previous attachment for her should make her sacred among my companions. I insisted, therefore, that he should pledge me his word to respect her; otherwise I should refuse obedience to his orders. His only reply was, to cock his carbine; and at the signal my comrades did the same. They laughed with cruelty at my impotent rage. What could I do? I felt the madness of resistance. I was menaced on all hands, and my companions obliged me to follow them. She remained alone with the chief—yes, alone and almost lifeless!—

Here the robber paused in his recital, overpowered by his emotions. Great drops of sweat stood on his forehead; he panted rather than breathed; his brawny bosom rose and fell like the waves of a troubled sea. When he had become a little calm, he continued his recital.

I was not long in finding a shepherd, said he. I ran with the rapidity of a deer, eager, if possible, to get back before what I dreaded might take place. I had left my companions far behind, and I rejoined them before they had reached one-half the distance I had made. I hurried them back to the place where we had left the captain. As we approached, I beheld him seated by the side of Rosetta. His triumphant look, and the desolate condition of the unfortunate girl, left me no doubt of her fate. I know not how I restrained my fury.

It was with extreme difficulty, and by guiding her hand, that she was made to trace a few characters, requesting her father to send three hundred dollars as her ransom. The letter was dispatched by the shepherd. When he was gone, the chief turned sternly to me: "You have set an example," said he, "of mutiny and self-will, which if indulged would be ruinous to the troop. Had I treated you as our laws require, this bullet would have been driven through your brain. But you are an old friend; I have borne patiently with your fury and your folly; I have even protected you from a foolish passion that would have unmanned you. As to this girl, the laws of our association must have their course." So saying, he gave his commands, lots were drawn, and the helpless girl was abandoned to the troop.

Here the robber paused again, panting with fury and it was some moments before he could resume his story.

Hell, said he, was raging in my heart. I beheld the impossibility of avenging myself, and I felt that, according to the articles in which we stood bound to one another, the captain was in the right. I rushed with frenzy from the place. I threw myself upon the earth; tore up the grass with my hands, and beat my head, and gnashed my teeth in agony and rage. When at length I returned, I beheld the wretched victim, pale, disheveled; her dress torn and disordered. An emotion of pity for a moment subdued my fiercer feelings. I bore her to the foot of a tree, and leaned her gently against it. I took my gourd, which was filled with wine, and applying it to her lips, endeavored to make her swallow a little. To what a condition was she recovered! She, whom I had once seen the pride of Frosinone, who but a short time before I had beheld sporting in her father's vineyard, so fresh and beautiful and happy! Her teeth were clenched; her eyes fixed on the ground; her form without motion, and in a state of absolute insensibility. I hung over her in an agony of recollection of all that she had been, and of anguish at what I now beheld her. I darted round a look of horror at my companions, who seemed like so many fiends exulting in the downfall of an angel, and I felt a horror at myself for being their accomplice.

The captain, always suspicious, saw with his usual penetration what was passing within me, and ordered me to go upon the ridge of woods to keep a look-out upon the neighborhood and await the return of the shepherd. I obeyed, of course, stifling the fury that raged within me, though I felt for the moment that he was my most deadly foe.

On my way, however, a ray of reflection came across my mind. I perceived that the captain was but following with strictness the terrible laws to which we had sworn fidelity. That the passion by which I had been blinded might with justice have been fatal to me but for his forbearance; that he had penetrated my soul, and had taken precautions, by sending me out of the way, to prevent my committing any excess in my anger. From that instant I felt that I was capable of pardoning him.

Occupied with these thoughts, I arrived at the foot of the mountain. The country was solitary and secure; and in a short time I beheld the shepherd at a distance crossing the plain. I hastened to meet him. He had obtained nothing. He had found the father plunged in the deepest distress. He had read the letter with violent emotion, and then calming himself with a sudden exertion, he had replied coldly, "My daughter has been dishonored by those wretches; let her be returned without ransom, or let her die!"

I shuddered at this reply. I knew, according to the laws of our troop, her death was inevitable. Our oaths required it. I felt, nevertheless, that, not having been able to have her to myself, I could become her executioner!

The robber again paused with agitation. I sat musing upon his last frightful words, which proved to what excess the passions may be carried when escaped from all moral restraint. There was a horrible verity in this story that reminded me of some of the tragic fictions of Dante.

We now came to a fatal moment, resumed the bandit. After the report of the shepherd, I returned with him, and the chieftain received from his lips the refusal of the father. At a signal, which we all understood, we followed him some distance from the victim. He there pronounced her sentence of death. Every one stood ready to execute his order; but I interfered. I observed that there was something due to pity, as well as to justice. That I was as ready as anyone to approve the implacable law which was to serve as a warning to all those who hesitated to pay the ransoms demanded for our prisoners, but that, though the sacrifice was proper, it ought to be made without cruelty. The night is approaching, continued I; she will soon be wrapped in sleep; let her then be dispatched. All that I now claim on the score of former fondness for her is, let me strike the blow. I will do it as surely, but more tenderly, than another.

Several raised their voices against my proposition, but the captain imposed silence on them. He told me I might conduct her into a thicket at some distance, and he relied upon my promise.

I hastened to seize my prey. There was a forlorn kind of triumph at having at length become her exclusive possessor. I bore her off into the thickness of the forest. She remained in the same state of insensibility and stupor. I was thankful that she did not recollect me; for had she once murmured my name, I should have been overcome. She slept at length in the arms of him who was to poniard her. Many were the conflicts I underwent before I could bring myself to strike the blow. My heart had become sore by the recent conflicts it had undergone, and I dreaded lest, by procrastination, some other should become her executioner. When her repose had continued for some time, I separated myself gently from her, that I might not disturb her sleep, and seizing suddenly my poniard, plunged it into her bosom. A painful and concentrated murmur, but without any convulsive movement, accompanied her last sigh. So perished this unfortunate.

___________________

3: An Unposted Letter

Newton MacTavish

1875–1941

The Canadian Magazine, Feb 1901

OUTSIDE, a hammer pounded mockingly; the gallows were under construction. Through the iron bars of the prison window shone a few straggling shafts of sunlight. My client rested on his elbows, his chin in his hands. The light glistened on his matted hair. He heard the hammering outside.

"I guess I may's well write a line to Bill," he said, not raising his head. "Kin you get a pencil and paper?"

I got them, and then waited until he had written:

"DEAR BILL,

"By the sound of things, I reckon I've got to swing this trip. I've had a hope all along that they might git scent on the right track; but I see that Six-Eye'll be 'bliged to kick the bucket, with head up— the galleys is goin' up mighty fast.

"I say, Bill, there ain't no good in burglarin'. I swore once I'd quit it, and wish I had. But a feller can't allus do just as he fancies; I guess he can't allus do it, kin he, Bill? You never knew how I got into this scrape, did you?

"One day I was standin' around, just standin' around, nothin' doin', when I saw a pair of runaway horses a-comin' down the street like mad. I jumped out and caught the nigh one by the bridle. I hauled 'em up mighty sudden, but somethin' swung me round, and I struck my head agin the neck-yoke, kersmash.

"When I come to, I was sittin' back in the carriage with the sweetest faced girl bendin' over me, and wipin' my face with cool water. She asked where she would drive me home; and, do you know, Bill, for the first time, I was ashamed to say where. But I told her, and, so help me, she came clear down in there with me, and made Emily put me to bed. She left money, and every day till I got well she come out and sat and read the Bible and all them things. Do you know, Bill, it wasn't long afore things seemed different. I couldn't look at her pure, sweet face and plan a job. The last day she came I made up my mind I'd try somethin' else—quit burglarin'.

"I started out to get work. One man asked me what I'd served my time at. I said I'd served most of it in jail, and then he wouldn't have anythin' to do with me. A chap gave me a couple of days breakin' stones in a cellar. He said I did it so good he guessed I must have been in jail. After that I couldn't get nothin' to do, because no one wouldn't have nothin' to do with a jail-bird, and I had made up my mind to tell the truth.

"At last Emily began to kick and little Bob to cry for grub. I got sick of huntin' for work, and it seemed as if everybody was pushin' me back to my old job. I got disgusted. I had to do somethin', so I sat down and planned to do a big house in the suburbs. I'd sized it up before.

"The moon was high that night, so I waited till it went down, long after midnight. I found the back door already open, so it was a snap to git in.

"I went upstairs and picked on a side room near the front. I eased the door and looked in. A candle flickered low, and flames danced from a few coals in the fireplace.

"I entered noiselessly.

"A high-backed chair was in front of the hearth. I sneaked up and looked over the top. A young girl, all dressed in white, with low neck and bare arms, laid there asleep. Her hair hung over her shoulders; she looked like as if she'd come home from a dance, and just threw herself there tired out.

"Just as I was goin' to turn away, the flames in the fireplace flickered, and I caught the glow of rubies at the girl's throat. How they shone and gleamed and shot fire from their blood-red depths! The candle burned low and sputtered; but the coals on the hearth flickered, the rubies glowed, and the girl breathed soft in her sleep.

" 'It's an easy trick,' I said to myself, and I leaned over the back of the chair, my breath fanning the light hair that fell over marble shoulders. I took out my knife and reached over. Just then the fire burned up a bit. As I leaned over I saw her sweet, girlish face, and, so h'lp me, Bill, it was her, her whose face I couldn't look into and plan a job.

"Hardly knowing it, I bared my head, and stood there knife in hand, the blood rushin' to my face, and my feelin's someway seemin' to go agin me.

"I looked at her, and gradually closed my knife and straightened up from that sneakin' shape a feller gets into. I remembered a verse that she used to read to me, 'Ye shall not go forth empty-handed,' so I said to myself I'd try again. But just as I was turning to go, I heard a shot in the next room; then a heavy thud. I stood stock-still for a jiffy, and then ran out in time to see someone dart down the stairs. At the bottom I heard a stumble. I hurried along the hall and ran straight into the arms of the butler.

"I guess someone else was doin' that job that night. But they had me slicker'n a whistle. 'Twas no use; everythin' went agin me. I had on my big revolver, the mate to the one you got. As it happened, one chamber was empty, and the ball they took from the old man's head was the same size. I had a bad record; it was all up with me. The only thing they brought up in court to the contrary was the top of an ear they found in the hall, where someone must have hit agin somethin' sharp. But they wouldn't listen to my lawyer.

"Give up burglarin', Bill; see what I've come to. But I hope you'll do a turn for Emily if ever she's in need, and don't learn little Bob filchin'. Do this for an old pal's sake, Bill."

THE DOOMED man stopped writing, as the last shaft of sunlight passed beyond the iron bars of the prison window. Outside the hammering had ceased; the scaffold was finished.

"You'll find Emily, my wife, in the back room of the basement at 126, River Street," said my client, handing me the letter. "She'll tell you where to find Bill."

I took the letter, but did not then know its contents. I started, but he called me back.

"You have a flower in your button-hole," he said. "I'd like to wrap it up and send it to Emily."

Next day, after the sentence of the law had been executed, I went to find Emily. I descended the musty old staircase at 126, River Street, where all was filth and squalor. At the back room I stopped and rapped. A towzy head was thrust out of the next door.

"They're gone," it said.

"Where?"

"Don't know. The woman went with some man."

"Did you know him?"

"I saw him here before sometimes, but the top of his ear wasn't cut off then. They called him Bill— sort of pal."

"And where's the little boy?"

"He's gone to the Shelter."

I went out into the pure air, and, standing on the kerbstone, read the letter:

"…The only thing they brought up in court to the contrary was the top of an ear…."

When I had finished, I remembered the flower in my hand. I didn't throw it away; I took it to my office and have it there still, wrapped in the paper as he gave it to me.

_______________________

4: William Tells

H. C. Witwer

1880-1929

Cosmopolitan January 1924

American author H C Witwer was the author of numerous sports and humorous stories and novels.

ACCORDING to Mr. Titus Livy, who used to say it with epigrams in dear old Padua, experience is the teacher of fools. Titus left this vale of tears some nineteen hundred years ago, but the school of experience originally founded by Eve and her apple addict confederate is still doing business at the same old stand. Me and Hazel Killian have just graduated with high honors in Paris. Hold everything and for no reason whatsoever I'll tell you how we won our diplomas. It's all fun!

I suppose I might as well begin by introducing myself, as Antony remarked to Cleopatra, who promptly proceeded to make a Mark out of him.

Well, I'm Gladys Murgatroyd, a phone operator and one of the show places of the Hotel St. Moe, port of New York. If I can't get your number, Hazel Killian will— she's a beautiful, hard-boiled, modern forty-niner, and honestly she's got everybody's number! Although Haze! is not employed at a switch-board, a telephone is really more important to her than it is to me. You guessed it— Hazel's a chorus girl.

Speaking of anchovies, no doubt you are wondering what a couple of such Campfire Girls as we are were doing in mischievous Paris. Well, I'll set your suspicions at rest. A grateful old maid plied me with five thousand dollars for preventing a patent-leather-haired young sheik from cuddling up to her jewels. Hazel had a few pennies of her own and as we were both tired of answering phone calls we decided to haul off and see Europe, having read so much about it in the papers.

Then the amusement commenced!

In ripping old London we saw one of our myriad boy friends win the world's middleweight championship at cuffing in the National Sporting Club. This lengthy-nosed, two-fisted cavalier blacks eyes under the title of Fighting Paddy Leary, which is breaking the heart of his aged Irish father, whose name in even figures is Goldstein. Mons. Leary crashed wildly in love with Hazel, with whom he used to compose mud pies on fashionable Tenth Avenue when both were mere brats, but the now upstage Hazel earnestly desired to let bygones be bygones as far as Fighting Paddy was concerned. She pegged the Prince of Wales in a box at the prize-fight and fell heavily in love with the heir presumptive, audibly wishing he would do some presuming in her direction, such as all the vaudeville sister acts who have been across coyly confess was their delightful experience. But by an odd coincidence, Hazel failed to become the Prince's weakness and we fled to France to escape the well meant pestering of Fighting Paddy Leary.

Really, I don't blame the gamesters who try to swim the English Channel, as I'm satisfied that method has it all over the trip via boat! If there's anything rougher than that dizzy body of water separating England from France, then Dempsey had better not fight it! Honest to Kansas, we led the life of a tennis ball on that voyage across— just tossed all over the place. I wanted to go by plane, but Hazel objects to them because they go up in the air. Anyhow, we finally made the perilous journey and landed in the country made famous by Sarah Bernhardt, Joan of Arc, Anna Held, Napoleon, "Couvert $1.50" and sliced potatoes dipped in boiling grease. Our next imitation was to board a train for art's home town, and of course the minute we stepped out of the Gare St.-Lazaire, Hazel pulls that ancient gag first breathed admiringly by Helen of Troy, viz., "So this is Paris!"

This was our original visit to gay Paree and in spite of the fact that we'd both invested in Baedekers and copies of "French in a Twinkling," we were as strange as a pair of deck-hands in a drawing room. Honestly, we didn't know what it was all about and couldn't tell a franc from a doubloon, oo la la from n'est-ce pas, or ros' biff from vin ordinaire. However, we fitted a taxi around us and bounded over to a hotel I picked out because it was right across the rue from the place where we'd have to draw on our letters of credit from time to time. The nearness to our pieces-of-eight was all this inn had to recommend it, though it was supposed to be the nightingale's sleeve garters, and really the prices were positively brutal!

Well, for years both me and Hazel had heard what a wild and wicked village Paris was and we set forth to look it over with delicious little quivers of anticipation romping up and down a couple of backs that would give Kitty Gordon pause. We're rarin' to go where deviltry was rampant and we wished to be thoroughly shocked or get our money back, one or the other!

However, as neither of us is in the habit of commuting between Gotham and Paris, we didn't know where to look for a thrill. Several sightseeing invitations were filed with us by the usual tourist parties from Idiotic, Nebraska, and Senseless, Iowa, but these were rejected with thanks. We'd watched these scissor-bills perform on the way over and neither of us had any desire to deliberately take punishment in habit-forming doses.

A sign outside the hotel manager's office boasted that they had somebody inside on exhibition who could speak English That was a barefaced lie, as we found out when we interviewed this braggart. His name was Duprez and he rolled a nasty eye at us and shrugged a vicious shoulder, but honestly he spoke English as if he had picked it up in Afghanistan! M. Duprez gave us the only two chairs in his office and bowed incessantly, while Hazel opened her "French in a Twinkling" and hastily scanned the pages.

"Listen, Mister Monseer, sil vous play?"

"But yes," says this master mind, "and Mademoiselle spiks vairy well Français, no is it not?"'

"I love that!" says Hazel, a bit steamed. "What are you doing— clowning?"

"Oh, not of the all, Mademoiselle, not of the all!" says Dizzy. "Of how do you must have my assistance?"

"We crave excitement!" says Hazel. "We got a yen to see Paris and see it right, get me? Eventually, why not now? Where do we go?"

"Ah!" says Duprez, with plenty hand waving. "I would offer the Champs Elysées, the Louvre, the Arc-de-Triomphe, la Place de la Concorde, le Palais de Justice, le—"

"For crying out loud!" butts in Hazel impatiently. "We don't wish souvenir post-cards, we want to step out and get some laughs. We'd like to personally inspect the Latin Quarter, the Montmartre, the Dead Rat Café, the Follies —eh—Bergerear, or what have you?"

A wicked grin appeared slowly on the face of M. Duprez and he commenced to swell! up like a mump. He gazed longingly first she says, "parley vous English", at me and then at Hazel and winked, quite suggestively. Hazel's lovely eyebrows lowered and then without any preliminary she stepped over and soundly slapped the gentleman's face.

"Keep your thoughts out of your eyes, Frenchie!" she says, three icicles on each word.

To my great surprise, our charming vis-à-vis didn't appear to be the least bit offended at being smacked in the profile. Really, he seemed to take it as a matter of course and simply distributed a pleasant smile evenly amongst us both. Then, having failed to build himself up with us, he suggested that we hire a guide for a week and we'd see all the Paris we could take. We decided that was a good thought and ordered one. Still smiling, Duprez pressed a button. It worked and pretty soon in came Mr. Guide. Honestly, this specimen was about the size and complexion of a demi-tasse and looked like an escaped murderer, hungry for another victim. But Duprez assured us that the newcomer knew more about Paris than Victor Hugo and likewise spoke sixty-nine languages, or two more than there are. We found out later that he spoke the last two better than the others. He was a wow, no fooling!

Hazel sternly commands M. Duprez to proposition our guide in English, so we'll know whether we're getting a pushing around or not.

"But certainment Mademoiselle!" says Duprez and turns to the guide. "Pig!" he says courteously, "prepare now to escort those lady from here to there with the utmost speed and precision. Comprenez vous? Do you afford them enough of the merriment they will enrich you with two hundred francs. Show them the this and show them the that. Do you but call me one improper name, I will have those gendarmes at your heels. Allez!"

The guide let forth a moan and wagged his head from side to side. "Playmate of dogs!" he says to M. Duprez, with characteristic old world politeness, "cochon, descendant of thieves— I ask three hundred francs for those magnifique service I do for those beautiful mademoiselles. Name of a name of a name of a—"

"We'll give you one hundred francs and not another nickel if you cry your eyes out!" I cut him off. "Come on, guide, do your stuff!"

"Yes," says Hazel, stamping her foot, "finish your act some other time. Let's go places!''

"Allons!" says the guide— and the panic was on!

Well, to dwarf a tall story, we frittered away almost a week and two barrels of francs seeing Paris, and really I must say that we were a bit disappointed with the results. The well known town just didn't click. Most of the time it rained day and night in a way that nobody but Noah could appreciate and we both caught beautiful colds. The population conducted itself quite decorously, as far as me and Hazel were able to see— musical comedies, Americanized French farces and joke books to the contrary. In fact, Hazel gloomily remarked that she'd had much more fun in Paterson, N. J., and she don't think the vin ordinaire of La Belle France is a fearful lot better than the drug store gin of La Belle United States. Well, really, that's what I call carrying patriotism to the extreme. I've been in Paterson and I've also tasted that pharmaceutical poison!

Our guide, who got intimate enough with us to disclose his name as Georges and his home as Morocco, took us to theaters and cafés in Montmartre alleged to be the deadfalls of the apaches and their wild women. Tomato sauce! As Hazel and me are case-hardened Broadwayites we found the jollity and attempts at the daring a bit forced. To tell you the truth, the greatest excitement we were having was trying to order a meal in a language we neither spoke, read, wrote nor understood. Honestly, the so called wicked Montmartre as displayed to us by Georges of Paris and Morocco reminded me of Philadelphia with a bun on!

We were fed up with the French capital and about ready to check out of it when along came William and we learned about Paris from him.

Hazel blew into our hostelry from a shopping expedition one afternoon with a gentleman escort, and as that was not what she told me she was going shopping for, I sat erect and took observation. Busy doing nothing, I'd been waiting for her in the reception room and that's where she introduced me to her find as William Richardson Van Cleve II, son of the billionaire near-beer king. I threw him a smile and shook hands pleasantly enough, but that didn't mean I was positive he was really as advertised. Bill was young and distinguished looking and there was something about his face that was strangely familiar to me. I was satisfied I had seen this fellow somewhere before, but I couldn't remember where. Ever have a face slip your memory like that and annoy you to death?

Strangely enough, a swiftly passing glint of recognition likewise lighted up William's eyes as he saw me— in fact, we both remarked on the thing but were unable to place each other, then! When the charming Hazel introduced me to William as "Gwendolyn Calhoun, of the Virginia Calhouns," I was a bit startled to say the least! A few minutes afterwards I got another shock when Hazel's heavy boy friend called her "Miss Devereux." Although I was plenty amused and much mystified by this strange thomas foolery on her part, I remained loyal to the young lady and played up to the deception, though intending to ask her for the answer at my earliest convenience.

William worked fast and managed to make a dinner engagement with us for the following night— not a difficult feat. Almost immediately afterwards he bowed out, carelessly remarking that he must hasten away to cable his brokers "regarding a million dollar deal" he was negotiating in the rue Wall, New York. As William airily made this announcement, the hypnotized Hazel, who hates money the same way J. P. Morgan dislikes a ticker, looked at him swooningly. But really, as I've met two hundred thousand of these boys at the St. Moe switchboard whose patter is the same as William's, I regarded his vanishing shapely back through narrowed eyes and began to get thoughtful. Oh, lots thoughtful!

In the privacy of our boudoir that night, Hazel furnished me with a complete inventory of William Richardson Van Cleve II. From Hazel's prejudiced viewpoint, Bill was something more than the feline's haberdashery and she had stumbled across him under double romantic— almost movie— circumstances. While shopping in one of Monsieur Rue's cute little alleys, she had mislaid her sense of direction, and her inability to talk any more Paris than a rabbit had made her predicament real serious. As if that wasn't more than ample to drive our heroine to distraction, along came one of those desperate apaches we'd been dying to see, snatched Hazel's purse and was running away with it, when Hon. William Richardson Van Cleve II appeared on the scene. William ran the thief ragged, caught him, cuffed him soundly and restored the wide-eyed Hazel's purse. You can't laugh that off and Will knew it, so still working with smooth and effective speed he then introduced himself to Hazel and took her to luncheon. There you are— simple, wasn't it?

But really I've learned to become millionaire-proof and was only mildly interested in William, who so far had thrilled me about as much as it thrills a camel to look at some sand. What I was exceedingly interested in was in keeping the fun-loving Hazel from harm in gay Paree. So I cut in on her cooings about William the great.

"Listen, young lady," I says severely, "I have a few questions to ask you. What's the big idea of tagging me 'Gwendolyn Calhoun of the Virginia Calhouns' and telling that big— eh— your boy friend William that your name's Devereux?"

Hazel smiles like a baby— an impish one.

"What's wrong with those names?" she asks me. "I think they're real cute."

"Outside of the fact that they're not ours, there's nothing the matter with them," I admit. "But if you wanted to give William a run around why not say we were Cleopatra and Salome and be done with it?"

"Too common," pronounces Hazel. "And anyhow, neither of us are those kind of girls and you know it! But you take Miss Devereux and Miss Calhoun and there's a couple of names that mean something. There's— well, there's stuff to them, if you know what I mean.  They're aristocratic and they just ooze Fifth Avenue. I certainly wasn't going to tell William Richardson Van Cleve second heir to the near-beer millions, that I'm Hazel Killian, a show girl, and you're merely a phone operator!"

"Why not?" I demanded, commencing to burn a trifle. "I've been connected with some of the best families in New York!"

"By telephone!" sneers Hazel cattily.  "No, the switchboard operator and the chorus girl thing is out and if you tell William different I'll be off you for life. I'm not going to kill this cotillion leader's interest at the very start, when I'm more than an even money bet right now to drag him to the altar!"

"I think you're hysterical, myself!" I says. "If you wanted to offer a tasty cognomen for William's enjoyment, why didn't you introduce me by my real  name— isn't there a world of class to Gladys Murgatroyd?"

Hazel looked pensive. "That name does smack of the drawing room," she says, "but then it also has a phony sound. It's always struck me as apple sauce and I wouldn't risk it with such a judge of aristocratic names as anyone entitled William Richardson Van Cleve second must be!"

Don't you love that?

Well, honestly, Hazel raved about sweet William until something like two A.M. Her lifelong ambition had been to pull a Follies, viz., a first class elopement with the handsome handicap of some wealthy family, and Mr. Van Cleve II looked like a wonderful opportunity.

"Maybe we'll continue around the world from Paris on our honeymoon," she remarks dreamily. "I'd love to see the road to Mandalay that Shakespeare wrote that song about."

"It wasn't Shakespeare, it was Longfellow," I corrected her. "Do you mean to tell me that this William asked you to marry him on a three hour acquaintance?"

"Well— yes and no," says Hazel. "He hasn't asked, but he's certainly looked matrimony and don't think he hasn't!"

I really couldn't give Hazel an argument on that. My girl friend has baby-stared into plenty masculine corneas and she certainly should know!

Nevertheless, I wasn't satisfied that William Richardson Van Cleve II was all he appeared to be on the surface. Somehow I distrusted his too self-assured manner and I was no little suspicious of his nonchalant use of the noun "millions." The familiarity of his face puzzled me, too. I began to feel some real alarm for my enthusiastic roommate.

"Hazel,"' I says seriously, "you better go slow or you'll win yourself a lot of grief. Paris is full of these sleek young wolves who prey on innocent little girls like us. I'll bet the first thing you know that synthetic millionaire's son will be putting the bee on you for beaucoup francs. He—"

"What an awful squawker you're getting to be!" butts in Hazel, burning up. "Always putting in a rap for somebody. I imagine you think Dempsey used a hypodermic on Firpo! Listen, tend to your own knitting. I'm nobody's fool and any member of the needless sex who could get a dime from me could also send a flock of camels galloping through the eye of a needle!"

The debate over William got so warm that I finally turned the light out and stumbled asleep, leaving the angry Hazel talking matters over with her own sweet self.

However, although me and Hazel have known each other personally for years we're still good friends, so as usual the next morning we declared an armistice, spending most of the afternoon dolling up for our dinner engagement with William. We'd each had the presence of mind to imbibe in evening gowns of a most intoxicating nature, and both of us can wear anything and start an epidemic of neck-stretching anywheres from beach to ball-room. When William arrived in immaculate evening dress, as the saying goes, he really seemed to be a bit dazed by the combined effect of me and Hazel on his vision. He bucked up manfully, however, and took us to Ciro's for nourishment.

Well, except for the irritation I felt at being unable to remember where I had seen this young lady-killer before, the evening was a success of the first water. Me and Hazel attracted as much attention as a lump of sugar would from a famished fly, the handsome William was two feet past perfection as a host, the dinner was a famine victim's dream and the wine exceedingly better than the Long Island Scotch now current in New York. As I was supposed to be something from Virginia, I switched my patter from Broadwayese to "you-all" and "suh," and I was careful to call a door "doah." This had Hazel on the verge of convulsions but seemed to goal Mr. William.

Will spoke French as if he'd been born in the Louvre, so we wisely left the selection of the foodstuffs to him. That was certainly a good thought, because the near-beer king's descendant turned out to be an artist of the old school at making a menu mean something. Never in my young life have I witnessed anyone order food with the care and deliberation that Mr. William Richardson Van Cleve II used to pick each dainty from the bill of fare. Honestly, you'd think our lives depended on the result of each decision he made from soup to nuts. He captured the open respect of the haughty head waiter, while our own garçon fairly fawned on such a master at eating. The various wines, different for each course, came in to William in their original baskets to be discussed at length; the meat, fish and fowl were first brought in uncooked direct from the admiring chef, etc. Oh, this boy was good, he was for a positive fact!

Hazel couldn't get her adoring eyes to focus anywhere but on William during the entire evening and even I began to get slightly impressed. The young man's table talk was chiefly financial— really, he used dollar marks for punctuation. According to his own story, he squandered six months of each fiscal year in Europe, mostly at one of his father's flock of chateaus and villas. He wished we could see his male parent's little place at Nice, or perhaps the villa in Italy would be more interesting to a couple of aristocrats like us, or again we might find the castle in Burgundy more fascinating. Honestly, he had us dizzy!

By the time we began to toy with the coffee, William had reached the top of his game. Waxing confidential, he remarked that his billionaire father headed a syndicate that was negotiating with the German government to pay their debt to the Allies. Just one thing held matters up, he confided to the breathless Hazel. His dear old dad insisted on fifty-two percent interest and the sweet old Germans couldn't see into it. We mustn't breathe a word of might cause international complications and that sort of thing. This sensational insight into diplomatic affairs put Hazel right into a trance and if William had asked her to wed him at that minute he would have certainly got service! All I could think of was that dish you make by boiling apples.

At first William divided his attention evenly between us, but finding me the hardest to promote he aimed his heavy artillery at the already overboard Hazel.

They got along like brandy and soda. After the feast he suggested that we go to places and dance. No argument there. We accepted a taxi and the future money king took us to see what he called "the real Paris." He seemed to know the successful French hamlet like Nanook knows the North. William showed us all the devilish places we'd read about but had failed dismally to find ourselves, and really he spent important money like the next morning he was going to be executed. Most of his tips must have caused the recipients to throw up their jobs and open their own places, and said tips came from a bankroll that would baffle a particularly agile greyhound when it came to leaping over it. When he said by-by to us at our hotel around four A.M. we were forced to admit we'd had a marvelous time. Hazel had a field day kidding me about my suspicions of the young man, and as I like fairness I had to confess that to date William checked up as bonded goods.

Well, William then began rushing us in deadly earnest, and honestly, trying to get rid of him was like trying to get rid of a cold in the head. He said it with every- thing from flowers to bonbons and was likewise a constant caller at our hotel, by phone or in person. His unusual mastery of the French language was of wonderful assistance in our enjoyment of our stay in Paris and his knowledge of where to go for the laughs didn't hurt either. I wanted to check out and leave the field clear for Hazel, but Hazel was indignant at the idea of me being a wall flower and William added protests that sounded sincere enough. So the three of us stepped high, wide and handsome all over Paris. Will was a glutton for punishment, taking us motoring, dining, dancing, to all the shows, fashion centers and even to the races, where we won a thousand francs each on his tip in the Grand Prix de Paris. Hazel, of course, was just one big smile surrounded by girl and even I had to grudgingly admit that as an all-around entertainer William Richardson Van Cleve II was mighty good company.

"I'd like your boy friend better, though, Hazel," I told my little pal as we prepared to retire the night following the races, "if only he would talk about something else once in a while besides himself, his family and his father's uncountable millions. I crave a little variety in conversation, if you know what I mean."

Hazel is pouring herself into a negligée that belonged in La Vie Parisienne and nowhere else. She sneers at me.

"Blah!" she says, "He's spent about three thousand dollars keeping us from yawning since we met him. I don't care what he talks about!"

That's the tip-off on Hazel.

A few evenings later we had a date with the faithful William to go motoring, but Hazel broke out with a terrible headache in the afternoon and by nightfall she was pretty low. So the auto ride was out as far as she was concerned, but she insisted that I go along with our mutual friend and not stay in on her account. She said she wished to write some letters and go to bed early; also, she most earnestly desired me to go with William so that I could find out what he really thought of her and report back. Really, I didn't like the job, but do like Hazel, so with some misgivings I gave Will a treat by accepting.

O sole mio!

We rode to a cute little inn on the outskirts of Paris and tore off another one of William's marvelous dinners, with some wine that was positively heavenly. I indulged very sparingly in the beverage. But William tied into that wine as if he'd just staggered in from a week on the desert, and after either the third or the fifteenth bottle he got what I have often heard described as "mellow." He moved over beside me and captured my hand. I told him to be himself and drew it away, when to my great indignation he tried to kiss me. Boys will be boys!

When I repulsed William, he got more indignant than me. He said he couldn't understand why I should object to a mere innocent kiss, especially as Hazel hadn't! That last boast made me sit up and I regarded him with blazing eyes.

"You have kissed Hazel?"

"Dozens of times!" says William airily, and pours himself another Pol Roger.

Well, honestly , I was simply furious and I just sat there and glared at him. It wasn't jealousy of Hazel that got me red-headed, as William failed to panic me, but to me the most contemptible thing in the wide wide world is the Lothario who kisses and tells! I jumped up and ordered a rather frightened William to take me back to the hotel at once. All the way home he did nothing but beg me not to tell Hazel he had wanted to kiss me, but I gave him no satisfaction. Outwardly I was cold and non-committal, but inwardly I was fit to be tied.

After thinking everything over, I made up my mind to rid Hazel of the kissing William, who I was positive would only make her unhappy. Knowing Hazel's. disposition and temperament I realized it would be double useless to attempt to get her to give William the air on my say so, so I determined to bear down on William myself and make him like it.

When I got to our room, Hazel reared up sleepily in bed. "Well," she yawns, "did William talk about me?"

I gave her a queer smile. "I'll say he talked about you!" I says— and nothing more.

The very next morning I sent a long cable to a trustworthy friend in New York asking him to cable back the following to William Richardson Van Cleve II:

Your escapades with women must come to an end. Have stopped your income and you can expect no further financial assistance unless you return home on next boat. Father

That, I expected, would be the end of Bill as far as me and Hazel were concerned!

A couple of nights later William took us to dinner at his hotel and the cable was delivered to him at the table right before the dessert. Honestly, I was just quivering with excitement and never took my eyes off his face while he read it. For the shortest of moments William's brow contracted and then he flashed us a dazzling smile.

"By Jove!" says William, "I've just made half a million in wheat. We'll drink all the wine in Paris tonight!"

With sparkling eyes Hazel leans over and pats his back, laughing joyously, but I was absolutely dumfounded by his 42-carat nerve! Of course I knew how that cable actually read, since I composed it myself, and I had half a mind to ask him to let me see it and then show him up. On second thought I decided not to for various reasons, one of which was the thousand- to-one shot that William really had put over a fast one in the stock market.

However, the next day while Hazel was out on one of her endless shopping trips, William paid me a call. Really, he was an entirely different person from the boasting, free-spending, smiling young man of the past. His first act was to pull out the cable he got the night before and show it to me without a word. As I expected, it read exactly as I had written it. He then handed me another one, saying he had just received it. This one read:

Return home at once. Your father has disinherited you.

Mother

Honestly, I was positively flabbergasted by this coincidence. Imagine his getting a legitimate cable making him a total loss just after I had faked one doing the same thing! I regarded him coldly.

"Well?" I says.

"Well," says William, "the funny part of this is that I have no father and no mother. I'm an orphan!'

Heavens above!

While all I could do was to stare at him in amazement, William told his tale. It was one for the book, it was for a fact! His name was not William Richardson Van Cleve II, it was William Simmons, and he was by no means the heir to the near- beer billions; he was a waiter! Ain't we got fun? As if that wasn't enough, this young man of a thousand surprises calmly tells me he knows I'm a phone operator and no "Calhoun of Virginia" and that Hazel is a show girl, because he saw us both frequently when he worked in the main dining room of the St. Moe, New York. That's the reason his face was so familiar to me. It also explains his ability to plan a kingly dinner— why shouldn't a waiter know how to order food?

"William," I says, when our hero stopped momentarily for breath, "with your undiluted nerve you should be able to sell electric fans to the Eskimos! Why put on the dog with us and tell us all those fairy tales about yourself?"

"It's been my ambition for years to come to Paris," he says, coolly taking a cigarette from a box of Hazel's on the dresser, "and this trip represents my life savings. You girls happened to come along and I put over a harmless deception to satisfy a romantic yearning, that's all. Besides, didn't you also deceive me about your social position?"

"Well, really— I—" we stammer, a bit confused.

"That's all right," interrupts William, with a lordly wave of his hand. "Don't apologize. I guess we're about even— except for one thing. I blew all my money on you and your girl friend and now I'm flat broke! I don't know anybody in Paris, and as the high life is all over for me I must get back to the United States and go to work again. If you'll loan me the fare, I'll look you up at the St. Moe when you come back and repay it. If you don't, I'll just about starve to death, that's all?"

Honestly, as I sat there thinking this amazing young man over I was as much sorry for him as I was angry. After all, no hats had been broken or anything like that and he did spend a flock of money on me and Hazel. He pleaded with me for nearly an hour, and though I felt I was insane to do it I finally loaned him three hundred dollars on his promise to go back to America at once.

Not two hours later a messenger comes up to my room with a neat little package. In it is three hundred dollars and the following note:

After leaving you I bumped into an old friend who loaned me the fare, so I'm returning your money with thanks. Will see you at the St. Moe. Meanwhile, don't flirt with any more millionaires' sons. Be good! William

I had scarcely finished reading this missive and counting the money when Hazel flounces into the room. I thought I might as well get things over and be done with it,

"Hazel, I says, "I'm awfully sorry for you, but you might as well forget about William. He's gone out of our lives forever!"

To my great surprise Hazel appears highly pleased.

"Good!" she says. "I was afraid we'd have trouble giving that big clown the gate, but my scheme must have worked!"

"Your scheme?" I says dizzily.

"Sure!" says Hazel complacently. "I sent him a cable supposed to have come from his mother, saying he was cut off without a dime!"

Honestly, I'm at the gasping stage.

"I thought you were overboard over William," I says. "What happened?"

Hazel hesitates and looks confused.

"Well, Gladys," she says, "I— of course, what you do is your own business and— I — oh, well, I just got disgusted with him when he tried to kiss me and said he had kissed you!"

Then we got together and compared notes on this gentleman.

I told Hazel of William's confession, and when the astounded Hazel learned she had been seeing Paris with a waiter, really, she went right up in flames. She raved around the room for half an hour and then suddenly grew quite calm.

"Well, one consolation is that waiter will be in the Bastille here tonight," she says. "He took me for three hundred to get back to the United States, and being sore over that stuff about him kissing you I gave him the money in marked bills. He's going to be arrested for masquerading as Van Cleve's son, and when they find that marked sugar on him— good night!"

At that I sat right up straight in my chair. A wild thought had suddenly struck me.

"Hazel," I asked with deadly calm, "when did you loan William that three hundred?"

"About two hours ago. Why?"

"Just a minute!" I answered and dashed into the other room.

Feverishly I opened my purse and dragged out the money William had sent back to me. As I feared, each bill was marked with Hazel's initials!

Well, it didn't take me long to figure things out, and although I was plenty enraged, I had to give William credit for a rather cute performance. He had borrowed three hundred from each of us, saw that Hazel's money was marked and promptly used it to pay me back! Not bad, what? My sense of humor rose above my anger and I handed the raging Hazel $150.

"Hazel," I says, "I don't blame you for being sore. That's the way I feel, too, But I really think we might as well split William between us and charge the difference to experience!"

"And he told me we'd spend our honeymoon in Camembert!" moans Hazel, cramming away the bills and wiping her tearful eyes.

"You're crazy," I says. "Camembert's a cheese!"

"Well," says Hazel, "so was William!"

________________________

5: The Parole of Gevil-Hay

Katherine & Hesketh Prichard

1851–1935; 1876–1922

Badminton Magazine, Jan 1898

The Spanish brigand Don Q. appeared in numerous short stories and one novel by this team, who also wrote as E & H Heron. This is the first Don Q. story.

IF YOU TAKE A MAP of Spain and follow the Mediterranean coast, where, across the narrow seas, the mountains of Europe and the mountains of Africa stand up forever one against the other, you will find on the Spanish side the broad line of the Andalusian highlands stretching from Jerez to Almeria and beyond. Here is a wild, houseless country of silent forest and evergreen thicket climbing up towards barren, sun-tortured heights. It is patched with surfaces of smooth rock, and ravines strewn with tumbled boulders; lined by almost untrodden mule tracks, and sparsely dotted with the bottle-shaped chozas of the charcoal-burners and the herdsmen.

The lord of this magnificent desolation was locally, though not officially, acknowledged to be a certain brigand chief, known far and wide as Don Q., an abbreviation of the nickname Quebranta-Huesos, which is, being interpreted, the bone-smasher, a name by which the neophron or bone-breaking vulture goes in those parts. In answer to any question as to where the bandit came from or when he began to harry the countryside, one was told that he had been there always, which, though manifestly untrue, was, nevertheless, as near an approach to historical accuracy as may be found on many a printed page.

For Don Q., though perhaps not endowed with the sempiternal quality, had many other attributes of mysterious greatness. Few had seen him, but all knew him and feared him, and most had felt his power; he had cognizance of what was said or done, or, indeed, even thought of, throughout the length and the breadth of the wild region over which he held sway. He dealt out reward and punishment with the same unsparing hand. If a goatherd pleased him, the fellow was made rich for life; but no man lived to bring him false information twice.

From his hidden abiding-place in the black rock, a hundred feet above the general camp of his followers, he was to the surrounding country as a poised hawk to a covey of partridges.

The stories of his savageries were brought down to the plains by leather-clad mountaineers, and occasional expeditions were sent up against him by those in authority in the towns. But every attempt failed, and the parties of guardias civiles came back fewer in numbers, having built cairns over their dead, leaving them near lonely shrines, amongst the ravens and the big ragged birds of the sierra.

From all this it will be seen that the brigand chief was not a common brand of cut-throat; in fact, he belonged to that highest class known as sequestradores, or robbers who hold to ransom; and, though his methods were considered unpleasant, he carried through most of his affairs with satisfaction to himself, for he was an exceptionally good man of business.

No doubt, if any individual were to set up in the same line of life within twenty miles of a good-sized English or American town, the chances are that his career would end with something of suddenness. But in Spain it is always tomorrow, and the convenience of the system lies in the fact that there is always another tomorrow waiting to take up the deferred responsibilities. If Providence had seen fit to remove that fatal mañana from the Spanish vocabulary and the Spanish mind, the map might be differently coloured to-day.

A party of civiles had just returned from a particularly unlucky excursion into the mountains, and there was, therefore, the less excuse for the foolhardiness of Gevil-Hay, who declined to pay any heed to the warnings of H.B.M.'s consul on the seaboard or the deep hints of his host at the little inn under the mountains, but continued to pursue his journey across the sierra. He could not be brought to see why the will of a hill-thief should stand between him and his desire to wander where he liked.

Gevil-Hay's obstinacy sprang from a variety of causes. He was in bad health and worse spirits, and he had for the whole period of his manhood governed a small kingdom of wild and treacherous hill-men in the interests of the British Government, backed only by a handful of native police, and, what is more, had governed it with conspicuous success.

Besides, beneath a quiet exterior, Gevil-Hay was as hard to move as the nether millstone. After putting these facts together, it will not be difficult to see that when he started for his long solitary ride across the Boca de Jabili he only did what a man in his condition and with his temperament and experience would be likely to do.

He carried a revolver, it is true, but he found no use for it on a dim evening when something gripped his neck from behind. Indeed it was only after an interval that he understood vaguely how he came to be the centre of a hustling crowd of silent men who smelt offensively of garlic and leather. They tied him upon his horse and the party set their faces north-east towards the towering bulk of the higher sierra.

But for once in a way the spiders of Don Q. had taken a captive in their net of whom they could make nothing. In the dawn when they got him out of the cane-built hut in which they had passed the latter part of the night, they saw that he was tall and thin and rather stooped, with a statuesque face of extreme pallor. So far he was not so altogether uncommon. But the brigands were accustomed to see character come out strongly in similar circumstances, yet Gevil-Hay asked no questions, he evinced no trace of curiosity as to where they were taking him. He showed nothing but a cold indifference. A man in his position who asked no questions was a man of mark. He puzzled them.

The truth was that Gevil-Hay despised his warnings and took his ill-fortune in the same spirit of fatalism. He had been an Indian Civil servant of good prospects and bad health. In the end the bad health proved the stronger, and his country retired him on a narrow income. He was unemotionally heartbroken. There was a woman somewhere in the past, a woman to whom the man's lonely heart had clung steadfastly through the years while health slowly and surely deserted him. "Love me little, love me long" has its corresponding lines set deep throughout the character, and if Gevil-Hay was incapable of a passion of love or sorrow, he was not ignorant of the pang of a long renunciation and an enduring regret.

Don Q.'s men were no respecters of persons. The prisoner's reserve they finally put down to his being poor, probably deadly poor, for poverty is the commonest of all evils in Spain, and they treated him accordingly.

Rough handling and the keen winds of the upper sierra are not wholesome for a fever-shaken frame, but Gevil-Hay occupied himself with himself until he was brought into the presence of Don Q.

Late in the afternoon a halt was called, the prisoner was blindfolded and led through the scrub; then the wind blew more sharply in his face and Gevil-Hay knew that he trod on wiry grass, which in turn changed to a surface of bare echoing rock. Passing out of this tunnel he was secured by having his hands tied, and, when his eyes were uncovered, he found himself in a small enclosed valley with sheer precipitous sides. The ground was furred with coarse grass, but there were thickets of flowering shrubs on the higher ledges and a backing of wind-blown pines.

A couple of men hurried him up a winding pathway cut out of the cliff-face to the mouth of a cave, fronting which was a little natural terrace.

There they found Don Q., sitting in the sunshine, with a wide hat of felt drawn over his brows. Gevil-Hay saw nothing vulture-like but one lean hand like a delicate yellow claw that held the cloak about his neck.

"To whom have I the pleasure to address myself?" asked the brigand, with extreme and unexpected politeness.

Gevil-Hay's hands being loosed, he fixed his single eye-glass and glanced round the glen before he replied.

"Perhaps you will be good enough to give me some idea of your career, and we can go into the question of the ransom at the end of it," resumed Don Q. in his courteous manner, as the other finished speaking.

Gevil-Hay answered briefly in good Spanish, for an Indian civilian is supposed to start in life equipped with a knowledge of every language under the sun.

"Ah, then you have retired— well, been forced to retire— but with a pension? Yes!"

"Yes."

Don Q., like all other foreigners, entertained extravagant ideas as to the lavishness of the English Government. Perhaps by comparison it is lavish.

"How much?" he asked.

"£300 a year."

"Ah," the brigand hesitated while he made a mental calculation. "Your ransom, señor—" He stopped; he understood how to make a judicious use of suspense.

In the pause a shot re-echoed through the ravine, followed by a sound of loud, sudden brawling immediately below.

The Spaniard snatched off his hat and peered out over the end of the terrace. His cloak lay about him like a vulture's tumbled plumage, as he turned his face over his shoulder to listen with outstretched neck.

Then for the first time Gevil-Hay saw his face clearly, the livid, wrinkled eyelids, the white wedge-shaped bald head narrowing down to the hooked nose, the lean neck, the cruel aspect, all the distinctive features of the quebranta-huesos transmuted into human likeness.

A few sharp sibilant words hissed down the cliff, and the two swarthy quarrellers below fell apart with a simultaneous upward look of apprehension.

"Your punishment waits, my children," said the chief gently. "Go!"

The ruffians slunk away. They were curiously cowed and by a word. It was an object lesson to Gevil-Hay, and perhaps the brigand watched him covertly to see how he would take it. But the prisoner's calm face gave no sign.

"Señor," said Don Q., "you are a poor man you say, and you are lucky in that I believe you. I will name but a moderate sum, and after this conversation there will be no more about it. We will omit the subject while you remain my guest." The soft speech grew softer.

"There is no need to give my position a false name," answered Gevil-Hay; "I am your prisoner. Misfortune introduced us."

Above all things created, a man who defied him was abhorrent to the brigand, but now he saw one who looked him in the eyes without either fear or curiosity. Gevil-Hay interested him, but rather as a frog interests a vivisector.

"On one thing I pride myself, señor," he said presently. "When I speak, the thing which I say is unalterable. I am about to tell you the amount of your ransom. I will contrive to send down your message."

"You will have to give me time if you wish to get the money," said the other. "I have only my pension, and I must see if they will commute that."

"Your Government will pay," asserted Don Q. suavely. "They will not lose so valuable a servant."

"Do you care for a worn-out coat?" asked Gevil-Hay with a mirthless laugh. "Besides, I came here in spite of warnings that the roads were unsafe. I must bear the consequences."

Don Q.'s wrinkled eyelids quivered.

"Shall we say twenty thousand dollars?" he asked, as if deferring to his prisoner's opinion.

"You have said it, and that's the end," returned Gevil-Hay; "though," he added, "I don't think you are ever likely to see it. They will commute my pension on the scale of the probable duration of my life, and that will give no satisfactory average, I am afraid. I hope you may get fifteen thousand dollars. I doubt if you will get more."

"I trust for your sake I may get twenty thousand," replied the Spaniard, "otherwise a disappointment might lead to consequences— regrettable consequences."

He shook his head and blinked as he withdrew into the cave.

Meanwhile Gevil-Hay wrote out his appeal and a request to Ingham, the consul at the seaport under the mountains, that he would urge the matter forward. Then he sat and drearily watched the evening wind in the pines above the gorge, and wished vainly that he could do anything— anything but watch and wait.

It is a bad moment when a man believes his days of action are past, while his brain works strong and resolute as ever! He longed to beat the brigand at his own game, for he fancied he was a man worth beating.

In the gloom, when the fire was lit outside the cave, Don Q. returned. He took the sealed letter that Gevil-Hay held ready for dispatch.

"And now, señor, I regard you as my guest," said he; "and in all things but one you may command me. I assure you I will do my best to play the host well and to make your stay among us pleasant to you. I have your parole, señor?"

Gevil-Hay hesitated. The fever had laid its hand upon him, he shivered as he stood in the breeze, and the joints of his knees were unloosed with a creeping weakness. Not so many years ago the world seemed at his feet; he had striven hard for his position and won it— won more than that. He had tasted much of life's sweetness and the joy of power and growing success, yet to-day—

"Yes," he answered.

As the days went on Gevil-Hay found he had a good deal in common with the chief, who proved himself an attentive host. There was something kindred between the two men, and yet Gevil-Hay was alternately attracted and repelled.

Yielding to the charm of Don Q.'s fine courtesy he was led on to talk of many things, and he talked well, while the chilly thin-framed hearer, crouching in his cloak over the fire, listened with interest to a later view of the great world than lay within his own remembrance. Also the Englishman had been a wanderer in far countries; he was a man who spoke with authority, who understood the craft of administration and high affairs, so that he could converse on the level of actual knowledge and experience with one who held himself to be also a ruler and a lawgiver to no contemptible portion of mankind.

To Gevil-Hay Don Q. was a study. He watched him as a snake might be watched by an imaginative rabbit. He was always following the livid-lidded eyes, always speculating on the thoughts which worked in that ill-balanced brain. For Don Q. was a Spaniard of the Spaniards, having the qualities of his race in excess. He was quite fearless, proud to distraction, unsurpassed in the kindly courtesy of a nation of aristocrats, and cruel beyond belief. As this character developed itself, Gevil-Hay, like many another man who has thought himself tired of life, clung to his chances of escape as they hourly grew less before his eyes. For one thing was apparent— Don Q.'s peculiarities did not lean to the side of mercy.

A couple of days after his arrival in the glen he asked the brigand chief what had been done with the two young brawlers who had drawn knives upon each other under the terrace.

Don Q. removed his cigarette to answer.

"They will annoy you no more, señor," he said, with the anxiety of hospitality, "no more."

"What? Have you sent them away to some of your out-lying detachments?" asked Gevil-Hay, for he had learned by this time that the robbers were posted at many points in the mountains.

Don Q. laughed, a venomous sibilant laugh.

"They are gone— yes, with other carrion— the vultures alone know where!"

The chief was in one of his black moods of intense and brooding melancholy. They were common with him, but this was the first which Gevil-Hay had seen.

It suddenly struck him that some leaven of insanity might lurk behind the fierce, bird-like aspect. No wonder his followers obeyed him at the run. His generosity and his vengeance were out of all proportion to the deserving.

"Some day," said Gevil-Hay abruptly, "they will resent— this kind of thing. There are many ways; they might betray you, and then—"

Don Q. gave him a poisonous glance.

"I have made provision for that also; but no, señor, when I die, it shall be in my own manner and of my own will," and he relapsed again into musing.

It was then that Gevil-Hay found himself wishing his ransom might arrive in full, and wishing it with fervour. In a few minutes Don Q. spoke again.

"If you own a dog, he may love you; but a pack of wolves are kept in order with the lash. These," he waved his hand towards the gleaming camp fires in the hollow, "are wolves. Also many men desire to join us— many more than I care to take. So you perceive, señor, I can afford to lose a few who offend me."

He rose as he spoke, and, going back into the cave, brought forth his guitar.

"After all, what is life, that we should prize it so?" he asked, as his thin fingers touched the strings. "I live up here, feared and obeyed to satiety. Sometimes I have the honour of a gentleman's companionship, as I now have the honour of yours, señor. At other times I grow weary of life, and my restlessness drives me down the mountains; but— at all times I love the music of Spain."

Gevil-Hay looked askance at the guitar. Music was not one of the things for which he could declare any special fancy.

Don Q. placed his open palm across the twanging notes.

"If it displeases you," he said apologetically.

Gevil-Hay hastened to assure him to the contrary. And, indeed, if the listener had had the power of appreciation, he must have been touched and charmed, for Don Q.'s was a master hand. He lingered over mournful Andalusian melodies, and even sang in his strange sibilant voice long sad songs of old Spain and forgotten deeds and men.

ii

SO THE DAYS wore on, but one evening there was a new development.

Gevil-Hay, secured only by his parole, was allowed to wander at large about the glen, and on this occasion, after an ugly climb, he arrived at the head of a deep and narrow cleft in the higher rocks along the bottom of which a faint track was visible. As he stood and surveyed it with an involuntary thought of escape, he heard his name spoken. Of course it was some hidden sentinel, but he was surprised when the man repeated his call, in the same low voice, for Don Q.'s men were usually sullen. In their eyes a prisoner had but two uses. First he was saleable; second, if unsaleable, it was amusing to see him die.

"What do you want?" asked Gevil-Hay after a little hesitation.

"The thing I say must be forever between us two alone. You can help us, we can help you. That is the reason of my speaking. No, señor, stay where you are. If you promise, I will show you my face."

"I promise nothing."

"Ah, that is because you have not yet heard! Is it not true that my lord of the sierra is taking from you all your riches?"

"Yes."

"And you, like the rest of us, would do something to save them? Is not that also so?"

"It may be."

"Then do it. It is but a little thing, and in the doing should taste sweet. You will not betray me?"

"As I have not seen you I cannot."

"But you will not?"

"No."

"Then take it, señor. Here, look up towards the lentisco."

In the warm gloom of the lentisco shrub something cold and ominous passed from hand to hand, and Gevil-Hay's fingers closed on the butt of a revolver.

"You mean me to kill him?" he said slowly.

A laugh was the answer, and words followed the laugh.

"Yes, for you have opportunity. Then you shall go free, for we hate him."

"And you?"

There was another laugh.

"A pardon and the blood-money between us. Now go."

And it cannot be denied that in the soft southern dusk Charles Gerald Gevil-Hay was horribly tempted. He stood there in the silence and wrestled with the temptation. Arguments came to him freely. By firing that shot he would be serving his kind as well as himself. Tormented with thoughts he slid back into the glen and walked across the short, hard grass towards the terrace. He passed by the fires round which the men were gambling. Lean columns of smoke rose slowly into the higher air, strange cries filled the glen, for the sequestradores played high, and each voice rose and fell with its possessor's luck.

He mounted the sloping path to the terrace. Don Q., unsuspecting, was within the cave reading letters beside a cheap lamp. How easy— Gevil-Hay stood outside in the herb-scented darkness and watched him. On the one side, the prisoner could look forward to a life of comfort at the least; and who could tell what else the future held? On the other hand, a hideous beggary in smoky, fish-scented lodgings, an existence worse than death! And in the night the man's honour wrestled with the man's temptations of expediency.

Presently he went in. Don Q. scowled at him and threw him an English newspaper. It was fourteen days old, and not one which Gevil-Hay was wont to buy when at home; but in the whirl of his thoughts he fled to it as to a refuge. He was about to open it, holding it at arm's length for the purpose, when his glance lit upon a notice in the obituary column.

"Hertford.—On March 10th, suddenly, at Frane Hall, Franebridge, George Chigwell Aberstone Hertford, eldest son of the late—"

He folded the paper with mathematical precision and read two columns of advertisements without seeing a word of what he read.

So George Hertford was dead at last! And Helen— free.

Don Q. looked furtively at him under the shadow of his wide hat, and saw that El Palido, as the men called him, was sitting there more white and more statuesque than ever. His eyes were blank and set. By his tense attitude Don Q. knew that some struggle was going on within the Englishman's mind, and his own face filled with an ominous light as he glanced at one of his letters.

"Señor," he said aloud, in a changed voice, "news of your ransom has come. Eighteen thousand dollars. I said twenty thousand."

Gevil-Hay started slightly, controlled himself, and said unconcernedly—

"And so?"

"And so, señor, I am prepared to stand by my side of the bargain," replied the chief with a poisonous politeness. "At the rising of the moon nine-tenths of you shall go free from the head of our glen!"

There was a silence, broken only by the noises in the camp.

Free? Gevil-Hay's thoughts were racing through his brain. Yes, free, and—Helen was free! Her husband dead. Then he took in the force of Don Q.'s words, and, rising, stood up and leaned against the rocky wall.

"Am I to be grateful?" he asked frigidly.

Don Q. smiled with a suave acquiescence.

"And because your conversation has interested me, señor, you shall have the privilege of choosing which tenth of yourself you will leave behind."

"In fact, not content with making me a beggar you will take from me all chance of regaining my losses?"

Don Q. bowed again and spoke with exceeding gentleness.

"It comes to that. I am very much afraid it comes to that," he said. "It is terribly unfortunate, I admit, but I do not see how it can be avoided. But you are a comparatively heavy man, señor; I think I should advise you to leave a limb behind you. One can yet live without a limb."

The brigand's callousness startled Gevil-Hay, well as he fancied he knew him. And in the breast of the slow-moving, phlegmatic man the temptation arose again with accumulated strength. A loaded revolver was under his hand, practical impunity waited upon the deed, and beyond that life— and Helen! What stood between him and all this? Why, a scruple, a scruple that should not hold good for a moment against such counteracting motives. It occurred to him with much force that the thin, bald-browed, malignant despot opposite would be much more wholesome of contemplation were his lips closed forever.

But he had passed his word, given his parole, and a man occasionally finds his honour an inconvenient possession.

Had it been a question of another man's life or person, Gevil-Hay would have had no hesitation in sending Don Q. to his appointed place. Moreover, he would have been delighted of the excuse for sending him there. As it was he held his hand.

In another hour he would be given over to the band for mutilation, and his talk in the dark with the sentinel, joined to his failure in making use of the opportunity offered him, would assuredly not lighten the manner of paying the penalty.

Through it all the bandit sat and watched him with blinking eyelids in the lamplight. Don Q.'s sight seemed not very good, but it served to show him what he wanted to see. He had broken down the indifference of Gevil-Hay.

But Gevil-Hay had not held himself well in hand during so many years of his life for nothing. He conquered now in the grimmest fight he had ever fought. But his soul rose at the man before him.

"I should certainly advise you to leave a limb," repeated Don Q. at last.

"You villain! You unutterable villain!"

Don Q.'s hand fell to his knife as he sprang to his feet and faced his captive.

"The one fact for which I am really sorry at this moment," went on Gevil-Hay, "is that I should have allowed such a thing as you to associate with me on equal terms! If I had guessed to what genus you belonged I would never have talked with you or remained near you except I had been held there by force! Now you know what I think of you, and I assure you, although I can guess the price I shall have to pay for the pleasure of saying so, it is cheap!"

Don Q.'s angled face was yellow. His figure shook. It must be remembered that Gevil-Hay had an exhaustive vocabulary of Spanish terms and knew the exact value of every word he distilled from the indignation within him. Also he had delivered his attack well and each word told.

The chief's livid eyelids were quivering.

"Señor, you have spoken as no man has ever spoken to me before," said Don Q., at last. "There are many ways of conducting those little scenes which lie between this moment and your departure. By the time the moon has risen it will be hard to recognize El Palido!"

There was a fierce significance in the last few words that at any other time might well have made Gevil-Hay's heart turn cold. But now with his blood up and the hopelessness of his position apparent, he merely turned his back with a stinging gesture of repulsion.

"You evil beast!" he repeated, "as long as I am not annoyed by the sight of you I can bear anything!"

So Gevil-Hay turned his back and stared out into the night. The noises below were hushed. The encampment was waiting for him— waiting— and for a third time temptation leaped upon him. And that was the worst spasm of all. When it left him, it left him exhausted. His mouth felt dry, his brow clammy.

He was still standing facing the opening of the cave, and after a pause a voice broke the silence.

"As you have a loaded revolver in your pocket, why do you not use it? Why do you not shoot me down, señor?"

"You know I could not," replied Gevil-Hay comprehensively.

"And are you not afraid of what is coming?"

Gevil-Hay turned and held out the revolver. Don Q.'s face was a study. He took no notice of the other's action, but asked—

"Because of your parole?"

He was answered by another question.

"How did you know about the revolver?"

"I instructed the man who gave it to you. I wished to see whether I had read you aright. Yet your inability to shoot me hurt you. Is not that so?"

"I wish I could do it now! At least there is no necessity for more talk between us. Maim me and let me go, or kill me! Only take away this revolver from me before I—"

Don Q. took the pistol and laid it with deliberation upon the table beside him, then he spoke.

"Señor," said he, "when I find one like you, I do not spoil the good God's work in him. You are not the type of man who comes to harm at my hands. A man who can keep his honour as you have done is worthy of life. Had you shot me, or rather had you attempted to do so—for I bear the charmed life of him who cares not whether he lives or dies—then the story of your death would have been related in the posadas of Andalusia for generations. But now, take your life, yes, take it from my hands.

"After tonight we shall see each other no more; but when you look back over your life, señor, you will always remember one man, who, like yourself, was afraid of nothing; a man worthy to stand beside you, Don Q., once of the noblest blood in Spain. A man—" The brigand checked himself in his flood of florid rhapsody and Spanish feeling. "Adios, señor."

Two hours later Gevil-Hay was alone upon the sierras. When he reached Gibraltar, which he did in due course, he was surprised to find himself almost sorry to hear that the Spanish Government, goaded on by ponderous British representations, had determined to cleanse the land of the presence of Don Q.

Since then Gevil-Hay's life has not been a failure. And sometimes in the midst of his work a thought comes back to him of the proud, unscrupulous, gallant brigand, whose respect he had once been lucky enough to win.

___________________

6: Not So Big

H. C. Witwer

Cosmopolitan June 1925

"OUR hero should be tall!" According to one of the beautifully bound volumes I got for an April Fool's Day present, the above bald statement was made by Charles Churchill, not a casting director as you might suspect, but an Englishman convicted of poetry some two hundred years ago. Charley pushed a pungent pen and threw a cruel poem, but really his recipe for heroes is all damp!

Gameness knows no size, as David convinced Goliath, and many a heart of oak pitty-pats in an undersized bosom. For instance, a grapefruit is far bigger than a burr, yet while the burr will stick forever, the grapefruit is— ah— yellow. There are no bulging biceps, walking-beam shoulders or barrel-chest on the soul and that's where courage comes from, regardless of whether its owner is a giant or a four-letter word meaning midget.

I've often heard that moral courage is far superior stuff to the physical brand— that an invincible will is a more spectacular weapon than an invincible fist. Well, lads and lassies, I want to say to you this afternoon that I've seen both in action, and honestly I can't make up my mind which gave me the biggest kick. So let me introduce Ben Warren and Pee Wee Yoakum, both nice boys and good to their mothers— a tall hero and a short one. No matter which you prefer, you can't go wrong!

Of course you remember me, even if I'm not Mr. or even Mrs. Addison Sims of Seattle, but Miss Gladys Murgatroyd of Manhattan. When not otherwise engaged, I operate a telephone switchboard at the Hotel St. Moe there— drop in some time and I'll split a number with you.

On the principle that all work and no play makes Jacqueline a dull girl, I witnessed Sunny California recently with some confederates of mine, i. e., Hazel Killian, Jerry Murphy, Pete Kift and Ben Warren. As long as introductions are in order, you might as well meet them— eventually, why not now? Really, they're all nice people, harmless and great entertainers if you laugh easy.

Since Hazel ceased wearing a bib she's been just a girl that men forget; that is, they forget all their other obligations for Hazel— but it takes a lot of jack to interest that Jill!

Jerry and Pete were cast at birth to be just a couple of "enter with others"— a rair of extras in the super-production, "Life." They both took a run out on the St. Moe about the same time I did and were now acting as house detective and bell captain at the Hotel Egram, the costliest inn in costly Los Angeles.

The handsome, husky Ben Warren was my childhood sweetie, as poor as Job and as ambitious as Napoleon. I took him out of college, which he couldn't afford, to make him a success, and he turned to the prize ring as the swiftest way to fame and fortune for a youth with that schoolboy complexion and the chin they love to touch.

Well, one day we all went for some surf bathing, tea and other creature comforts at the exclusive Santa Monica Shore Club. Our host was Montague Puttee, director of the film the lovely Hazel was then adorning. All the big movie stars, directors, producers, oil millionaires and real estate rajahs belong to the Shore Club, and honestly the wire-fenced beach of the eternally sunny afternoon is simply cluttered with beauty and billions. It's one of the important stops of the sightseeing buses where the noisy delegations from the corn belt gaze in awe through the network of fencing, gnaw excitedly at their hot dogs and exclaim, "Look, ma— there's Olive Oatmeal, the cereal star!" and, "Why, Egbert Stacomb ain't near as pretty off the screen, is he?"

On this eventful afternoon the beauteous Hazel, in a one-piece creation that ruined her already sold director, elected to sit on the sand and get Sunkist and mistaken for Mae Murray. However, I went down to the sea to give the fishes some tips on swimming, so while Ben Warren was phoning Jimmy Clinch, his manager, from the club-house, I hauled off and plunged into the boiling waves, striking out for the float. A brisk wind had chilled the ordinarily warm Pacific till honestly it was as cold as a mother-in-law's embrace, and that fact kept about all but the kiddies ashore. By the time I gaspingly pulled myself on top of the deserted float I was shivering like palsy itself.

I HUDDLED myself together and hugged my shaking knees, idly watching the booming surf break along the rocky shore-line, with its background of majestic palisades and the bluest sky I ever viewed. I thought of the giant sign that greets the hungry eye of the tourist along one of the ballroom-floor auto roads into Los Angeles:

WELCOME TO LOS ANGELES

OPPORTUNITY OUR ONLY KNOCKER!

Really, California's beautiful, regardless of hard-boiled Gotham's scorn of the great open spaces where men are real estate agents.

My roving eye finally picked out Ben waving frantically to me from the beach and as I lazily waved back he ran down the sand and tumbled into the ocean, swimming swiftly for the float. I watched him affectionately, wishing he had a million, and I was still day-dreaming when a yell from somewhere around me in the deep blue sea started one of the most thrilling half-hours I've put in since the day I parted with my appendix.

About fifty yards from me in the general direction of China a man was drowning!

Honestly, what I'd have done if I'd stopped to think I don't know, but in half a minute I'd come up from a hasty dive and was doing a nifty crawl through the briny. It didn't take me long to reach the unfortunate swimmer, but rescuing him was a horse from another stable.

The cold water had taken a lot out of me and as weak as a drunkard's alibi I was plenty busy trying to keep afloat myself. Really, as a life-saver I was a first-class telephone operator! However, I grabbed the slack of the gentleman's bathing suit to hold him up, but that move only sent us both under together, choking and struggling. Not so good! Fortunately, my téte-a-téte besides having cramps was also a little fellow, or we'd both have gone to the bottom like a couple of anvils.

When our heads broke above water he turned his small white face to me and with a cool, grim courage that thrilled me, he chattered through cold-purpled lips: "Lemme go and save yourself, kid— thanks just the same!"

And with a sudden jerk he tore my arm from him and sank!

Don't you love that?

"Steady, dear!" comes a deep, familiar voice and there's a firm grip on my bare shoulder. It was Ben Warren, of course. A few feet away a head bobbed up on the crest of a wave.

I pushed Ben off. "Save him— quick!" I panted. "I can floatnow and fake it till I get my wind!"

As I rolled on my back with the swell and fought for my breath,  Benny's muscular hands closed on the heroic little fellow's threshing arms.

So that was that!

BACK on the float, we'd each had all the swimming we could handle for the time being so we waited for the mock life-guard to come out and row us ashore. This ocean-going sheik was annoyed at being disturbed from his beach-posing before the movie cuties and took his time. The little man we'd snatched from a watery grave had amazing vitality and quickly recovered. He proved to be Pee Wee Yoakum and an exceedingly interesting character to me, for courage is one of my hobbies. Pee Wee was pathetically grateful to Ben for saving him from Eugene O'Neill's "ole davil sea," and as for me, well, he told the grinning Ben, "I learned about swimmin' from her!"

Honestly, the reception we got on the beach and the publicity I won in the ensuing newspaper spreads about Ben made the spot-light loving Hazel fit to be tied. But from her director friend, Montague Puttee, we got a large segment of Pee Wee's colorful history in a private room of the Shore Club that day, while being revived with some very potent— oh, let's call it tea.

It seems Pee Wee had once been a bantamweight pugilist of no little importance, but his fame rested on his ability to take cruel and unusual punishment rather than on his skill as a boxer. Mr. Puttee declared that Pee Wee, who had fought all the top-notchers in his class, was as game as a punching-bag and that let him out. He now lived from hand to mouth as a trainer, a second, an occasional "type" in the films, an errand boy for sporting men, gamblers and what not. On Sundays, Pee Wee, an incurable baseball addict, umpired at semi-professional games and he was swelled up like the Shenandoah over that last portfolio. Known far and wide for his knowledge of the national sport, his honesty and fair decisions, he was really in heavy demand behind the plate. As an umps, Pee Wee knew his groceries and his courage in calling close plays one way or the other without fear or favor was likewise no small asset.

Well, being as homeless as a roulette ball, Pee Wee Yoakum attached himself to Ben like a yes-man to a success and his attentions also extended to me and Hazel. No kidding, getting rid of him was a feat on a par with getting rid of asthma; he was messenger, guide, bundle-carrier, entertainer and counselor. I shared Ben's interest in the little fellow while Jerry Murphy and Pete Kift welcomed him as one of their own, but Hazel regarded Pee Wee as poison.

My comely girl friend, featured for the first time in a film through her natural ability— and an infatuated director— was heaving a heavy Ritz in Los Angeles and wanted nothing in the Pee Wee Yoakum line as part of her retinue.

"I wish you'd give that little clown the air and get a police dog or something!" she says peevishly one day, when I was out watching her troupe at the studio. "I can't afford to be seen playing around with a raucous character like that any more. Think of my reputation!"

"I often do," I says calmly. "But I've never let it bust up our friendship!"

"Creeping mackerel!" explodes Hazel. What do you mean by that crack?"

"Oh— nothing!'' I says irritably. 'Only be yourself and don't try to high hat me just because you have a couple of spoken titles in Montague Puttee's latest insult to the adult intelligence. I knew you when you thought Famous Players was Sousa's Band!"

"Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!" says Hazel. "That's a pay-off!

"Quit pushing my friends around and I won't be catty!" I says. "Most of your private playmates are fearful Patsies to me, really, yet I give them a sweet smile when you introduce me I look for the same consideration from you."

"Hotsy totsy!" says Hazel. "Well, you don't have to deliberately scour the world for a collection of nature's errors. Take this Pee Wee, for instance— you even leaped in the ocean for that little cartoon!"

Before I could unbuckle a crushing reply, Pee Wee himselj stepped from behind one of the electricians, armed with a bucket of steaming Java and a flock of sandwiches for the hungry extras, Sending Pee Wee for this was like sending a rabbit for a leaf of cabbage. He put the coffee down on a bench and with great care selected a club sandwich for me and one for himself, ignoring Hazel, who loves to eat.

"My, that smells good!" she says. "How about a copy for me?"

"Try and get it!' snaps Pee Wee. "I just got a load of them raps you been slippin' me and I ain't puttin' nothin' out! Where do you think you rate any favors, anyway?"

"Well, for weeping in public!" begins Hazel. "I—"

"So you think I'm a mug because I'm little, hey?" goes on Pee Wee. 'Well, history might of been wrote by big guys, but it was made by little ones, get me? Bein' little didn't stop David, Napoleon, Chaplin, Coolidge, Foch, Lloyd George is

"Jackie Coogan, Boy Blue, Jack Horner and Humpty Dumpty!" butts in Hazel sarcastically. 'Get rosie with me, you undersized dwarf, and I'll make this lot out of bounds for you. I'm going to report you to the studio manager."

"That's jake with me!" says Pee Wee. "If that big banana speaks out of turn I'll report him to my pal Abe Goldfish, the producer, which happens to be his boss. I'll tell Abe I got streeted because I'm little. That'll sound tasty to him— Abe could put on a high hat and walk tiptoe under a worm!"

"If you—" starts the highly steamed Hazel.

"As you get older, you'll find that them swivel-chairs in executive offices is wore out by little guys swingin' around in 'em to give big guys orders, good-lookin'!" Pee Wee shuts her off. "Now be still, or papa spank! Here's your sandwich— I got a weakness for women."

After that, Hazel called him So Big, for no reason whatsoever,

The following Sunday, having nothing to do and all day to do it in, we succumbed to Pee Wee's wiles and went to see him umpire a ball game. Our midget friend assured us we'd see plenty excitement and get thrilled to the core. I'll tell whoever's listening that he made good!

The gladiators represented Los Angeles and San Bernardino, or San Berdoo as it's called by those too lazy to mutter its full title, and this game had aroused unusual interest and bitterness. Pee Wee was called upon to decide innumerable close plays, and really the crowd howled for his life at each hairbreadth decision, one side or the other enraged at his ruling. Equally unmoved by threats or applause, Pee Wee pluckily called the plays as he saw them. Regardless of what niche his size limited him to in every-day life, he was absolute monarch of all he surveyed as he strutted his stuff on that baseball field. No fooling, as a tyrant he'd have made Nero seem soft-hearted and easily swayed! A cold jerk of Pee Wee's thumb over his shoulder, a snarling "Yer out!" and the victim's doom was sealed. Honestly, it was funny to watch these burly six-foot ball-players, most of 'em as tough as a life sentence, quail before this merciless manikin.

When the ninth inning arrived, the score was five to four in favor of the visiting team and the frenzied customers implored the home athletes to run amuck and win. This inspired the first Los Angeles batter to ground out and the next man fanned to the accompaniment of some screaming remarks from the crowd that he'll never recall with pleasure. With two out and a hit needed like a whale needs an ocean, Whitey Nolan, a gigantic ex-big leaguer, strode up to bat. More than any other player, Whitey had been riding Pee Wee all day and now he glared at him.

"You wanna keep your glims open this time, gnat!" snarls Whitey, hefting his bat. "You call any phony ones on me and I'll bear down on you!"

"Cuddle up to that plate, big boy!" returns Pee Wee calmly. "Don't get recent with me or I'll chase you to the showers!"

"Apple sauce!' sneers Whitey—and a ball whizzes past him.

"Stuh-rike one!" bawls Pee Wee.

"You dizzy little bum, it was over my head!" yells Whitey.

"That makes you a Elk!" grins Pee Wee. "So you used to bound around with the Red Sox, hey? Well, all you showed me this afternoon is that you got warts!"

"I'll—" howls Whitey, and ducks as a ball shaves his chin.

"Buh-all one!" says Pee Wee.

"The trouble with you is that you stopped so many when you was in the box fightin' racket that you're somewhat cuckoo!" sneers Whitey, never making a move to hit a ball that cut the plate beautifully.

"Stuh-rike tuh!" announces Pee Wee. "Why don't you take that bat off your shoulder? You look like a sentry!"

Two strikes and a ball on the boiling Whitey, last half of the ninth, two out and his team a run behind. The bleachers had suffered an attack of bedlam giving him the bird. Soulfully cursing Pee Wee, Whitey grimly gripped his bat and waited. The opposing pitcher hitched up his pants, took a long wind-up and let go. Not a flicker of a muscle from Whitey and the ball socked into the catcher's glove with a report like a gun.

"Stuh-rike three!" proclaims Pee Wee, tearing off his mask. "That's all for this afternoon!"

Then the jollity started!

We were swept along by the crowd pouring out of the stands on a bee-line for their parked autos, and as the winning San Berdoo, players ran in from the field, Whitey threw his bat savagely in the air and leaped for Pee Wee Yoakum.

Pee Wee stood his ground bravely, but with his face working with rage, Whitey swung his huge fist through the air and it landed with a sickening smash full in the little umpire's profile. Poor Pee Wee went down as if shot through the heart and this big coward Whitey laughed.

Hazel screamed and Pete Kift ran for Whitey's discarded bat with a weird oath but Ben Warren was at Whitey's shoulders with a rush that bowled the quickly gathering onlookers right and left.

"You big hound!" pants Ben. "Put your hands up— you're due for some grief!"

"You better not choose me, sucker!' snarls Whitey. "I made better guys than you like it!"

"Knock him off, Whitey!" yells somebody.

Really, that was most unfortunate advice! Whitey let fly viciously at Ben, but Ben wasn't there. The next instant Mr. Whitey crashed down beside Pee Wee, who was just sitting up, his little face a terrible, bloody sight. I got a glimpse of Ben blowing on his skinned knuckles and then somebody took a punch at the innocent bystander, Jerry Murphy. Jerry promptly walloped the nearest man to him and for no good reason Pete Kift stood on Whitey's motionless carcass to heave a pop bottle at another.

The ball-players joyously joined in the merry-making and in a few minutes the panic was on!

In the ensuing free-for-all, all our party managed to escape, unpark our car and rush Pee Wee to a doctor, although he protested strenuously that this was carrying matters to extremes.

"All I need is a good stiff jolt of honest-to-Hoboken hooch and I'll go back and take a decision over that big tramp Whitey," declared the ball-player's prey through his battered lips. 'Everything I do, I do just a little bit better with a jolt in me!"

A broad-minded doctor agreed with Pee Wee—and then proceeded to set his broken nose and dislocated jaw. Not a whimper out of Pee Wee while this painful operation was going on, though Hazel fainted dead away and I got fearfully nauseated. Really, I could have cheerfully killed that brute Whitey and all the way home the ordinarily icicle-hearted Hazel held Pee Wee's head in her lap, much to her former enemy's amused pleasure. We wanted Pee Wee to have Whitey arrested for assault and battery that night, but our little friend refused.

"I'll get that tomato in my own sweet way!" says Pee Wee.

Well, as they say in the movies, "Came the dawn!" and with it Jimmy Clinch, Ben's manager, who brought some interesting news. It seems Whitey Nolan was a brother of Knock-out Nolan, a heavyweight boxer of national reputation. According to Mons. Clinch, Nolan had remained in a vertical position for ten rounds with the world's champion and some years before he had killed an opponent in the ring. Seeking revenge for the beating Ben had given his brother, Knock-out Nolan, through the newspapers, challenged Benjamin to fight him at one of the Los Angeles clubs, all of which had begun frantic bidding for the bout.

THIS information frankly delighted my heavy boy friend, who hadn't fought in weeks and craved action, but it seemed to leave his manager cold.

"If I rate you along carefully, we got a world's title and a million starin' us right in the pan!" says Jimmy Clinch. "But you ain't got experience enough yet to cope with Knock-out Nolan. He's a tough boy, Ben, and he knows too much for you right now. That 'Kayo' in front of his name means somethin', .and should he stop you, we'll be through in this burg!"

"And if I crawl out of a fight with him now I'll be through here anyways," argues Ben. "I'll never improve by boxing pushovers. Get me Nolan—I'm rarin' to go!"

"Hot dam!" yells Pee Wee, capering around. "Let's box!"

"I want to be in Ben's corner!" cries Pete Kift. "Alley oop!" and he makes a wicked pass at Jerry Murphy, the other clown.

"But Jimmy Clinch says Knock-out Nolan killed another boxer!" I broke in fearfully. "Why, he must be a tiger in the ring!"

"Blaah!" says Pee Wee. "Bumpin' that boy off took a lot out of Nolan. It takes a long time to forget that one of your punches stopped the other guy's weak heart and that feelin's a handicap every time you go in there!"

"Why, how do you know, So Big?" asks Hazel. "Did you ever kill anybody when you were fighting?"'

"I had a couple of referees die laughin' at me," Pee Wee grins.

Well, within the week newspaper stories of how Ben knocked out Nolan's brother at the ball game, Nolan's reputation as a killer and Ben's colorful history as an ex-college football star had built up the proposed bout to such an extent that a record-breaking crowd was assured. The fight was what the promoters call a "natural." Ben was offered a big guarantee, with the option of an equally appetizing percentage of the gate, and as both he and his manager were extremely fluent with currency, Jimmy Clinch gave in and accepted the bout.

In spite of the fact that they smoked up this brawl in their columns, the sport writers privately gave Benny little chance against Nolan. Hazel said her director friend, Montague Putte, told her Whitey's brother would positively slap Ben stiff in a couple of rounds. Even the faithful Pee Wee Yoakum looked worried to me, though he made a great show of confidence in Ben's ability to win. Alarmed by these and various other indications that my Benjamin had bitten off more than he could masticate, I begged him not to go through with the bout, but he insisted, expressing a quiet belief that with five-ounce gloves he was a better man than Nolan or Gunga Din either.

Failing to move him or to get Pee Wee Yoakum to talk him out of the fight, I at least made what I thought were arrangements to save Benjamin's handsome face from being ruined for all time by Knock-out Nolan. I won a promise from Pee Wee, who was to be Ben's chief second, that he'd throw in the sponge if Ben was getting beaten too badly and thus stop the bout.

Speaking of avocados, the day of this quarrel was a fearful one for me, honestly! I hardly closed my eyes the night before, jumping out of bed at five A.M. when a brief cat-nap turned into a horrid dream of Knock-out Nolan beating Ben over the head with the ring posts. Really, I simply couldn't touch food all day and I know I worried off a good five pounds. Newspaper odds quoting Nolan an eleven to five favorite, printed alongside of his impressive knock-out record, didn't help my peace of mind a bit, either. However, I joined the loyal Hazel, Pete, Jerry and Pee Wee in betting till it hurt that Ben would deliver.

The endless procession of autos, moving twenty oaths and one foot at a time to the scene of hostilities at Vernon that night, stopped all other traffic. It took us nearly two hours to make an ordinarily half-hour trip to the club and some of the bitterly cursing fans never got there at all. Outside the abattoir, weary coppers fought with a surging mass of howling humanity that wanted to see Nolan or Ben battered into unconsciousness and was willing to suffer the same fate itself in trying to get inside. The only difference between that blood-hungry mob and the mobs that cheered Nero tossing the martyrs to the lions was simply a matter of costume.

We struggled, pushed, threatened, pleaded and bribed our way to our ringside seats, arriving there breathless and badly mussed up just as Ben and his handlers entered the ring. As he stood smiling cheerfully under the blinding cluster of lights over the canvas and waved his bandaged hands to the closely packed thousands, Ben got a great reception. My red-blooded sex was well represented—really, the he-men have nothing on the she-women at boxing contests any more.

"It's a shame to put that handsome boy in there with that brute Nolan!" exclaimed a pretty flapper at my left.

"Meow!" returned her bull-necked, homely escort. "His pan will be a baby-scarer when Nolan gets through with it. Them milk-fed cake eaters can't take it!"

"That's what you think!" I butted in warmly. "Ben won't have to take it—he'll whip Nolan with ease!"

"Him and which regiment of marines?" sneers this fellow.

A roar from the crowd interrupted this debate as Knock-out Nolan and his merry men climbed through the ropes. The cause of the fight, his brother Whitey, carried a water bucket and stopped to exchange murderous glares and similar insults with Pee Wee Yoakum before going to the other corner. Knock-out Nolan, grim, hairy-chested, but not bad looking, unsmilingly nodded his head in answer to a thunderous welcome.

"Look at him— a hundred battles and not a mark on him, outside of 'at one tin ear!" exclaimed a worshiper in back of me.

"He jabs 'em silly with that poisonous left and then knocks 'em kickin' with that right," says another admirer. "This one won't go two frames."

When the bell sounded, both men left their corners with a rush and went to close quarters, where Knock-out Nolan ripped in some hard punches to Ben's body. They went into a clinch and-after the referee tugged 'em apart they sparred cautiously, stepping catlike around each other while the crowd shrieked for action. Nolan responded with a right and left to Ben's head that sent Benny back on his heels and sent my heart to my tonsils. Nolan followed this up with a terrible uppercut and Ben began to sway like a flagpole in a storm. "There he goes!' yelled the gallery and another uppercut dropped Benny to one knee.

The furious din drowned the voice of the counting referee, but I kept my misty eyes glued to his rising and falling arm. At "eight" Ben rose slowly, looking badly dazed. Nolan gave him no rest, but plunged in with his punishing gloves working like pistons. Again Ben crashed to the canvas, but again he bravely got up—to run into a sizzling blow to the mouth that cut his lips. They were in a clinch with Benny bleeding badly when the bell ended the first round, Nolan's by a wide margin.

Knock-out Nolan, his grim expression unchanged, was hailed with wild cheers as he went to his corner. Pee Wee greeted Ben with a shower of cold water from a sponge as Ben fell dizzily on his stool. During the rest, Pee Wee and the other seconds worked frantically over him. The gallery, feet stamping in unison, kept up a continuous chant, "Knock him dead, Nolan!" Me and Hazel gripped each other's hands in tense silence, while Pete Kift hoarsely howled down a man behind him who sneered that Ben wouldn't last another round. Jerry was busy on the other side with a fistful of bills, betting that Ben would stay the limit and getting maniacal odds. Whitey Nolan stopped waving a towel over his brother long enough to look over at Ben and laugh.

Again the gong toned down the uproar like magic and Ben started the second round by missing a well-meant swing. The experienced Knock-out Nolan, clever, cruel and sure of himself now, began deliberately cutting the game but unseasoned Ben to pieces. Soon cries of "Stop it!" were mixed with the cheers. But though he was taking enough punishment to whip twenty boxers, my Ben never took a backward step!

Nolan pinned Ben against the ropes directly above us and hit him four times without a return. Then Ben brought the mob to its feet by lashing out blindly with a right that caught Nolan on the cheek-bone and sent him spinning backwards half-way across the ring. Instantly two-thirds of the sentiment. switched to Ben. Pee Wee screamed, "Don't let him set, Ben, get on top of him!" and, dancing madly around, upset the water bucket. Pete, Jerry and Hazel were three of four raving maniacs— I was the other one. But Nolan quickly recovered and returned to the attack, his thin lips curled in a wolfish snarl. Really, hardened fight fans around us gasped in awe as Ben, a human chopping block, took everything Nolan had and fought back desperately. A man remarked in my ear:

"I got a hundred fish on Nolan, but if this other boy would let one go and bounce him I'd lose my jack with a smile. What a heart 'at Benny's got!"

I begged Pee Wee to throw in the sponge as he promised and save Ben from further maul- ing, but Pee Wee shook his head.

"If I stopped this thing, Ben would cook me, kid!" he whispers hoarsely. "Ben's bet his entire guarantee that he'll take Nolan, and everything's possible to a scrapper with Ben's sand!"

"But Nolan's murdering him, you little fool," I exclaimed tearfully. "He—"

"Ben ain't steadied down yet," Pee Wee cuts me off. 'When I was in there tryin' I never could untrack myself till the other boy had half killed me," he adds reassuringly.

At that minute the round ended, and really Ben nearly did too!

Well, before the fight, unconvinced by Pee Wee's reluctant promise to throw in the sponge for Ben if he was losing, I had bought a supply of sponges at a drug store. Unnoticed by those around me, I now gave one each to Hazel, Jerry and Pete with ample instructions and kept a couple for myself. I'm proud to state that in spite of the fact that stopping that battle on Ben's account would mean bankruptcy for us all, none of them gave me an argument. They couldn't—for the shambles was on again before they could protest.

Roused by the taunts of the crowd, Knockout Nolan came out all business this time and after punching the reeling Ben all over the ring he suddenly let fly a right that put Ben flat on his back for a count of seven. Honestly, the screams of the crowd seemed to revive my boy friend and he came up with one of the greatest displays of courage that mob had ever seen.

Ben didn't know what it was all about and Nolan proceeded to batter him from pillar to post, but Ben kept his feet this time and fought back with thrilling gameness. The referee tried to pull Ben to his corner, but Ben shoved him away. Then the official spoke sharply to Pee Wee, and with tears streaming down his face Pee Wee tossed the dripping sponge into the ring.

It rolled and splashed at Ben's feet. Ben gave a quick glance down at it and then wowed the crowd by kicking the sponge out of the ring and charging the amazed Nolan in a fury. As one frenzied fan howled, Ben had nerve enough that night to admit in New York City that he was a Christian and not ashamed of it. With everyone in the place going mad pulling for Ben, he fell in mid-ring from sheer weariness. Then I acted!

I signaled my friends and threw my own sponge into the ring. Immediately a barrage of sponges descended on the fighters and the referee, hurled by Hazel, Jerry and Pete. No one could tell from which boxer's corner they came and in the midst of the wildest confusion, the bell clanged for the finish of the round.

It was impossible to pin the wholesale sponge throwing on anyone, Pee Wee and Ben angrily professing ignorance of the incident and accusing Knock-out Nolan's handlers of a trick. Half the fans wanted the fight stopped and the other half bellowed for it to go on, Ben leading that section. The referee hesitated, took a long look at Ben and then cleared the ring, signaling the timekeeper. Out blared the gong, but the still arguing Nolan refused to leave his stool. This didn't disturb the referee, who strode across the ring and calmly began to count Knock-out Nolan out as he sat in his corner protesting. At "six" Nolan rose and advanced slowly to the waiting Ben, who, in a final despairing effort, promptly flew at him like a wildcat.

Ben let drive with both gloves and one of them connected flush with. Nolan's mouth, bringing a stream of crimson. As Nolan backed away, looking worried, the terribly battered Ben braced himself and brought over another terrific punch to the bridge of his previously unmarked opponent's nose. This blow broke that useful member and floored Mr. Knock-out Nolan for the first time in his long career. On his hands and knees, Nolan looked up at Ben with fear showing as plainly in his now gory face as if the word was branded there in giant letters. Oh—you should have heard that crowd now! The scene would have baffled the fellow who first baffled description!

When Nolan arose he was a different person from the coldly sneering savage killer of a moment before. The hysterical jeers of the mob and the sheer courage of a man he had beaten to a pulp had taken his confidence. When Ben staggered over and swung at him again, instead of blocking and countering with his former contemptuous ease, Nolan dived into a clinch and panted to the referee, "This guy ain't human!"

The official surveyed Nolan with curling lip. Ron you big dog!' he snapped. "Go on— like it!"

But with a terrified look in his eyes, Knockout Nolan began to shuffle backwards across the ring till the ropes were against his back. Stumbling, groggy, but grimly pursuing, Ben brought up in front of him.

"Now!" screamed Pee Wee. 'Bring up the right, Ben, he's all yours!" I jumped up on my seat and almost fell into the row in front of me when Ben followed Pee Wee's instructions and Nolan went down with a thud that shook the ring. With the crowd counting in unison with the referee, Nolan, on one knee at "seven," stole a timid glance at Ben. Then he deliberately slipped back to a prostrate position and took the full count. Knock-out Nolan had enough!

"I broke my hands on him!" he alibied to the skeptical sport writers as he was dragged to his corner, while the shouting mob rushed the ring and surged around the limp but joyously grinning Ben.

"You mean you broke your heart on him, not your hands, you big quitter!' sneered the happy Pee Wee.

The other Nolan, Whitey, jumped for him, but a husky cop shouldered him away.

WE WERE all returning East a couple of weeks later and the day before leaving Los Angeles we attended a baseball game for the sole purpose of seeing Pee Wee Yoakum umpire once again. As we had to finish packing, we didn't get to the grounds till the game was nearly over, but really what we saw made up for any thrills we might have missed.

According to those sitting around us in the grand stand, who recognized Ben and gave him a great cheer, Pee Wee had become a vastly changed character since he umpired his last game. Apparently our midget friend was no longer the lion-hearted, intrepid arbiter of the past. The bullying players and the threatening crowd plainly seemed to frighten him. The feeling was that the punching Whitey Nolan had given Pee Wee in the game where Ben interceded for him had made the little umpire slightly yellow. Quick to see this astonishing change, the fans were riding him unmercifully, and, to our great surprise, not only was he open to argument, but really he frequently succumbed to it. The old spirit wasn't there!

Then, through one of those remarkable examples of coincidence that are more unusual and happen oftener in truth than they do in fiction, Whitey Nolan was sent in to bat as a pinch hitter. As in that other fateful game, it was the ninth inning, two were out and Whitey's team needed a run to tie the game. It was just one of those situations that can't happen twice, but do!

Well, the crowd remembered when Pee Wee and Whitey last met on a ball field, how Ben had beaten Whitey for hitting Pee Wee and then finished the job by knocking out Whitey's brother in four hectic rounds at Vernon. Hugely enjoying the thing, the boisterous grand stand and bleachers greeted this meeting accordingly. Honestly, I got quite a kick out of the expectancy myself!

Whitey gripped his bat firmly and faced the plate with a confident air.

"You gimme the worst of it this time, you little rat, and you're a cinch for the morgue!" he snarls at Pee Wee.

Pee Wee's response was a sickly grin— the evident tip-off on his fear of Whitey. A ball whizzed past Whitey into the catcher's glove.

It grooved the plate and was an obvious strike, but as Whitey shifted his bat and glared venomously at Pee Wee, the little umps cleared his throat and called tremulously: "Ball one!"

Really, the bleachers went wild. "Hey, you little crook, put yer glasses on!" and "Yegg! Robber!" were about the kindest comments. Hazel and Ben muttered disgustedly and I felt genuinely sorry for Pee Wee, whose hard-won reputation for gameness was going by the board. With the fans still jeering him, Pee Wee blurted "Ball two!" as another perfect pitch cut the plate without Whitey's making a move to swat it. Honestly, if anything, this was more a clean strike than the other one was and the opposing pitcher rushed to the plate in frenzied protest. Watch in hand, Pee Wee waved him back to the box, while the crowd squawked to high heaven and Whitey grinned.

"You're house broke now, all right, ain't you?" he sneers at Pee Wee. "I guess I took the heart outa you, runt!"

Pee Wee simply motioned his big tormentor up to the plate so timidly that the attendance howled with laughter. But as the little umpire adjusted his mask, he looked over to where we were sitting and smiled at us mysteriously,

Whitey fouled the following two balls— both vicious smashes that promised much if he connected fairly, and put the crowd on its toes, There was a resounding crack as he nailed the next ball a terrific smack, cast his bat to the winds and streaked for first base. Really, it was a beautiful hit and looked like a certain homer— the run needed to tie the score. The uproar was positively ear-splitting as Whitey tore on past third base and the recovered ball shot from the left fielder's arm to the short-stop. The latter whirled in his tracks and threw to the plate without a lost motion, the ball thudding into the catcher's glove at about the same instant that Whitey slid into the plate in a cloud of dust.

It was horribly close— a hair-splitting verdict either way. But though the crowd held its breath, to Whitey there wasn't the slightest uncertainty. He didn't even wait for Pee Wee's decision, but brushing the dirt off his uniform, arose and began bowing to his team's rooters, carelessly elbowing the little umpire aside. As this play would either tie the score or end the game and make Whitey's team the loser, all eyes were on Pee Wee of the once lion heart. Well, the Pee Wee Yoakum of old strode over to the still bowing Whitey Nolan, pulled him around and snarled:

"Yer out, you big bum! How d'ye like them berries?"

And Pee Wee was lost in the milling crowd.

___________________

7: The Hammerpond Park Burglary

H. G. Wells

1866-1946

Pall Mall Budget, July 5, 1894

IT IS A MOOT POINT whether burglary is to be considered as a sport, a trade, or an art. For a trade, the technique is scarcely rigid enough, and its claims to be considered an art are vitiated by the mercenary element that qualifies its triumphs. On the whole it seems to be most justly ranked as sport, a sport for which no rules are at present formulated, and of which the prizes are distributed in an extremely informal manner. It was this informality of burglary that led to the regrettable extinction of two promising beginners at Hammerpond Park.

The stakes offered in this affair consisted chiefly of diamonds and other personal bric-a-brac belonging to the newly married Lady Aveling. Lady Aveling, as the reader will remember, was the only daughter of Mrs. Montague Pangs, the well-known hostess. Her marriage to Lord Aveling was extensively advertised in the papers, the quantity and quality of her wedding presents, and the fact that the honeymoon was to be spent at Hammerpond. The announcement of these valuable prizes created a considerable sensation in the small circle in which Mr. Teddy Watkins was the undisputed leader, and it was decided that, accompanied by a duly qualified assistant, he should visit the village of Hammerpond in his professional capacity.

Being a man of naturally retiring and modest disposition, Mr. Watkins determined to make this visit incognito, and after due consideration of the conditions of his enterprise, he selected the role of a landscape artist and the unassuming surname of Smith. He preceded his assistant, who, it was decided, should join him only on the last afternoon of his stay at Hammerpond. Now the village of Hammerpond is perhaps one of the prettiest little corners in Sussex; many thatched houses still survive, the flint-built church with its tall spire nestling under the down is one of the finest and least restored in the county, and the beech-woods and bracken jungles through which the road runs to the great house are singularly rich in what the vulgar artist and photographer call “bits.” So that Mr. Watkins, on his arrival with two virgin canvases, a brand-new easel, a paint-box, portmanteau, an ingenious little ladder made in sections (after the pattern of the late lamented master Charles Peace), crowbar, and wire coils, found himself welcomed with effusion and some curiosity by half-a-dozen other brethren of the brush. It rendered the disguise he had chosen unexpectedly plausible, but it inflicted upon him a considerable amount of aesthetic conversation for which he was very imperfectly prepared.

“Have you exhibited very much?” said Young Person in the bar-parlour of the “Coach and Horses,” where Mr. Watkins was skilfully accumulating local information, on the night of his arrival.

“Very little,” said Mr. Watkins, “just a snack here and there.”

“Academy?”

“In course. And the Crystal Palace.”

“Did they hang you well?” said Porson.

“Don’t rot,” said Mr. Watkins; “I don’t like it.”

“I mean did they put you in a good place?”

“Whadyer mean?” said Mr. Watkins suspiciously. “One ’ud think you were trying to make out I’d been put away.”

Porson had been brought up by aunts, and was a gentlemanly young man even for an artist; he did not know what being “put away” meant, but he thought it best to explain that he intended nothing of the sort. As the question of hanging seemed a sore point with Mr. Watkins, he tried to divert the conversation a little.

“Do you do figure-work at all?”

“No, never had a head for figures,” said Mr. Watkins, “my miss— Mrs. Smith, I mean, does all that.”

“She paints too!” said Porson. “That’s rather jolly.”

“Very,” said Mr. Watkins, though he really did not think so, and feeling the conversation was drifting a little beyond his grasp added, “I came down here to paint Hammerpond House by moonlight.”

“Really!” said Porson. “That’s rather a novel idea.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Watkins, “I thought it rather a good notion when it occurred to me. I expect to begin tomorrow night.”

“What! You don’t mean to paint in the open, by night?”

“I do, though.”

“But how will you see your canvas?”

“Have a bloomin’ cop’s—” began Mr. Watkins, rising too quickly to the question, and then realising this, bawled to Miss Durgan for another glass of cheer. “I’m goin’ to have a thing called a dark lantern,” he said to Porson.

“But it’s about new moon now,” objected Porson. “There won’t be any moon.”

“There’ll be the house,” said Watkins, “at any rate. I’m goin’, you see, to paint the house first and the moon afterwards.”

“Oh!” said Porson, too staggered to continue the conversation.

“They doo say,” said old Durgan, the landlord, who had maintained a respectful silence during the technical conversation, “as there’s no less than three p’licemen from ’Azelworth on dewty every night in the house— ’count of this Lady Aveling ’n her jewellery. One’m won fower-and-six last night, off second footman-tossin’.”

Towards sunset next day Mr. Watkins, virgin canvas, easel, and a very considerable case of other appliances in hand, strolled up the pleasant pathway through the beech-woods to Hammerpond Park, and pitched his apparatus in a strategic position commanding the house. Here he was observed by Mr. Raphael Sant, who was returning across the park from a study of the chalk-pits. His curiosity having been fired by Porson’s account of the new arrival, he turned aside with the idea of discussing nocturnal art.

Mr. Watkins was apparently unaware of his approach. A friendly conversation with Lady Hammerpond’s butler had just terminated, and that individual, surrounded by the three pet dogs, which it was his duty to take for an airing after dinner had been served, was receding in the distance. Mr. Watkins was mixing colour with an air of great industry. Sant, approaching more nearly, was surprised to see the colour in question was as harsh and brilliant an emerald green as it is possible to imagine. Having cultivated an extreme sensibility to colour from his earliest years, he drew the air in sharply between his teeth at the very first glimpse of this brew. Mr. Watkins turned round. He looked annoyed.

“What on earth are you going to do with that beastly green?” said Sant.

Mr. Watkins realised that his zeal to appear busy in the eyes of the butler had evidently betrayed him into some technical error. He looked at Sant and hesitated.

“Pardon my rudeness,” said Sant; “but really, that green is altogether too amazing. It came as a shock. What do you mean to do with it?”

Mr. Watkins was collecting his resources. Nothing could save the situation but decision. “If you come here interrupting my work,” he said, “I’m a-goin’ to paint your face with it.”

Sant retired, for he was a humorist and a peaceful man. Going down the hill he met Porson and Wainwright. “Either that man is a genius or he is a dangerous lunatic,” said he. “Just go up and look at his green.” And he continued his way, his countenance brightened by a pleasant anticipation of a cheerful affray round an easel in the gloaming, and the shedding of much green paint.

But to Porson and Wainwright Mr. Watkins was less aggressive, and explained that the green was intended to be the first coating of his picture. It was, he admitted in response to a remark, an absolutely new method, invented by himself. But subsequently he became more reticent; he explained he was not going to tell every passer-by the secret of his own particular style, and added some scathing remarks upon the meanness of people “hanging about” to pick up such tricks of the masters as they could, which immediately relieved him of their company.

Twilight deepened, first one then another star appeared. The rooks amid the tall trees to the left of the house had long since lapsed into slumbrous silence, the house itself lost all the details of its architecture and became a dark grey outline, and then the windows of the salon shone out brilliantly, the conservatory was lighted up, and here and there a bedroom window burnt yellow. Had anyone approached the easel in the park it would have been found deserted. One brief uncivil word in brilliant green sullied the purity of its canvas. Mr. Watkins was busy in the shrubbery with his assistant, who had discreetly joined him from the carriage-drive.

Mr. Watkins was inclined to be self-congratulatory upon the ingenious device by which he had carried all his apparatus boldly, and in the sight of all men, right up to the scene of operations. “That’s the dressing-room,” he said to his assistant, “and, as soon as the maid takes the candle away and goes down to supper, we’ll call in. My! How nice the house do look, to be sure, against the starlight, and with all its windows and lights! Swopme, Jim, I almost wish I was a painter-chap. Have you fixed that there wire across the path from the laundry?”

He cautiously approached the house until he stood below the dressing-room window, and began to put together his folding ladder. He was much too experienced a practitioner to feel any unusual excitement. Jim was reconnoitring the smoking-room. Suddenly, close beside Mr. Watkins in the bushes, there was a violent crash and a stifled curse. Someone had tumbled over the wire which his assistant had just arranged. He heard feet running on the gravel pathway beyond. Mr. Watkins, like all true artists, was a singularly shy man, and he incontinently dropped his folding ladder and began running circumspectly through the shrubbery. He was indistinctly aware of two people hot upon his heels, and he fancied that he distinguished the outline of his assistant in front of him. In another moment he had vaulted the low stone wall bounding the shrubbery, and was in the open park. Two thuds on the turf followed his own leap.

It was a close chase in the darkness through the trees. Mr. Watkins was a loosely-built man and in good training, and he gained hand-over-hand upon the hoarsely panting figure in front. Neither spoke, but as Mr. Watkins pulled up alongside, a qualm of awful doubt came over him. The other man turned his head at the same moment and gave an exclamation of surprise. “It’s not Jim,” thought Mr. Watkins, and simultaneously the stranger flung himself, as it were, at Watkins’s knees, and they were forthwith grappling on the ground together. “Lend a hand, Bill,” cried the stranger as the third man came up. And Bill did—two hands in fact, and some accentuated feet. The fourth man, presumably Jim, had apparently turned aside and made off in a different direction. At any rate, he did not join the trio.

Mr. Watkins’s memory of the incidents of the next two minutes is extremely vague. He has a dim recollection of having his thumb in the corner of the mouth of the first man, and feeling anxious about its safety, and for some seconds at least he held the head of the gentleman answering to the name of Bill to the ground by the hair. He was also kicked in a great number of different places, apparently by a vast multitude of people. Then the gentleman who was not Bill got his knee below Mr. Watkins’s diaphragm, and tried to curl him up upon it.

When his sensations became less entangled he was sitting upon the turf, and eight or ten men— the night was dark, and he was rather too confused to count— standing round him, apparently waiting for him to recover. He mournfully assumed that he was captured, and would probably have made some philosophical reflections on the fickleness of fortune, had not his internal sensations disinclined him for speech.

He noticed very quickly that his wrists were not handcuffed, and then a flask of brandy was put in his hands. This touched him a little—it was such unexpected kindness.

“He’s a-comin’ round,” said a voice which he fancied he recognised as belonging to the Hammerpond second footman.

“We’ve got ’em, sir, both of ’em,” said the Hammerpond butler, the man who had handed him the flask. “Thanks to you.”

No one answered this remark. Yet he failed to see how it applied to him.

“He’s fair dazed,” said a strange voice; “the villains half-murdered him.”

Mr. Teddy Watkins decided to remain fair dazed until he had a better grasp of the situation. He perceived that two of the black figures round him stood side-by-side with a dejected air, and there was something in the carriage of their shoulders that suggested to his experienced eye hands that were bound together. Two! In a flash he rose to his position. He emptied the little flask and staggered— obsequious hands assisting him— to his feet. There was a sympathetic murmur.

“Shake hands, sir, shake hands,” said one of the figures near him. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am very greatly indebted to you. It was the jewels of my wife, Lady Aveling, which attracted these scoundrels to the house.”

“Very glad to make your lordship’s acquaintance,” said Teddy Watkins.

“I presume you saw the rascals making for the shrubbery, and dropped down on them?”

“That’s exactly how it happened,” said Mr. Watkins.

“You should have waited till they got in at the window,” said Lord Aveling; “they would get it hotter if they had actually committed the burglary. And it was lucky for you two of the policemen were out by the gates, and followed up the three of you. I doubt if you could have secured the two of them— though it was confoundedly plucky of you, all the same.”

“Yes, I ought to have thought of all that,” said Mr. Watkins; “but one can’t think of everything.”

“Certainly not,” said Lord Aveling. “I am afraid they have mauled you a little,” he added. The party was now moving towards the house. “You walk rather lame. May I offer you my arm?”

And instead of entering Hammerpond House by the dressing-room window, Mr. Watkins entered it— slightly intoxicated, and inclined now to cheerfulness again— on the arm of a real live peer, and by the front door. “This,” thought Mr. Watkins, “is burgling in style!” The “scoundrels,” seen by the gaslight, proved to be mere local amateurs unknown to Mr. Watkins, and they were taken down into the pantry and there watched over by the three policemen, two gamekeepers with loaded guns, the butler, an ostler, and a carman, until the dawn allowed of their removal to Hazelhurst police-station. Mr. Watkins was made much of in the salon. They devoted a sofa to him, and would not hear of a return to the village that night. Lady Aveling was sure he was brilliantly original, and said her idea of Turner was just such another rough, half-inebriated, deep-eyed, brave, and clever man. Some one brought up a remarkable little folding-ladder that had been picked up in the shrubbery, and showed him how it was put together. They also described how wires had been found in the shrubbery, evidently placed there to trip-up unwary pursuers. It was lucky he had escaped these snares. And they showed him the jewels.

Mr. Watkins had the sense not to talk too much, and in any conversational difficulty fell back on his internal pains. At last he was seized with stiffness in the back, and yawning. Everyone suddenly awoke to the fact that it was a shame to keep him talking after his affray, so he retired early to his room, the little red room next to Lord Aveling’s suite.

The dawn found a deserted easel bearing a canvas with a green inscription, in the Hammerpond Park, and it found Hammerpond House in commotion. But if the dawn found Mr. Teddy Watkins and the Aveling diamonds, it did not communicate the information to the police.

___________________

8: The Strength of the Meek

C. S. Montanye

1892-1948

Popular Magazine 20 April 1924

ONCE upon a time, as they say when they're broadcasting the cute little bedtime stories via the radio, a big tramp called ''Uncle Ottie" Scandrel, with more money than brains and more leisure time than a convict, bought a big, beautiful health farm called Five Acres, located in a place known as Wellington, New York. Now, Uncle Ottie, my dear girls and boys, thought he would pull a Muldoon, make the wealthy healthy and rent out rooms to any of the cast-iron leather pushers getting conditioned up for a mill. And so Uncle Ottie, who had more brass than a twelve-thousand- dollar motor boat, shot his roll to make Five Acres just the grandest place that ever was.

With an ex-welterweight known to the trade as "Tin Ear" O'Brien playing assistant manager, assistant trainer, assistant social secretary and with everything shaped up as nice as the "Follies," he flung open the front door to the public and sat down to wait for the flies to walk in and onto his parlor flypaper.

Put on your rubber ear muffs and listen to what happened.

From what I gathered, the former owners of Five Acres, after a tough scuffle with Kid Mortgage, had thrown in a towel and stepped aside to wait for the count. Scandrel misguided optimist and all-around numskull, had heard a whisper about the place somewhere and had called around to do the counting out himself— from a bank roll that would have caused consternation in any livery stable where there was an epidemic of choking. The deed was done and hidden away in a safe-deposit vault along with his diamond cuff buttons, his first false teeth and other valuables.

After that Ottie blew up to the Bronx to break the news. Twenty minutes after stop- ping in the gym he had made arrangements with Looie Pitz, a fight manager and antique enemy, to condition "Dangerous Dave" McFinn, one of Pitz's light-heavyweights, at Five Acres.

The agreement arrived at and Pitz smiling a way out, Scandrel threw some tobacco wrapped in paper in a mouth that was big though small, thrust out his chest, dragged down his cuffs and smirked at me.

"That's business, Joe. Right away the customers. If I don't click off a fortune in my first twelve months in this back yard I'm willing to admit I've got a personality like a handful of stewed prunes. Let me shove you up there for a couple of weeks and I'll show you the way to handle an up-to-date health factory. You'll be surprised!"

"I've read of Wellington in histories," I said, "but never in geographies. Just about where is it hidden?"

Ottie admired the latest trick in light-blue shirts and collars in an opposite mirror and curled a lip.

"Don't you know nothing? I've got the best location in the world— if you don't count Cuba. Wellington is convenient to White Plains, Albany, Staten Island and Lake Erie. It might be farther away from Crimes Square and nearer than it is. But you can bet your sour life it's planted just right for me. It's on the main road and I'll have the dollar boys dropping in to get improved if I have to go out and trap them with nets. Wait and see."

Blithely pivoting the conversation around, he went on to tell me all about how quickly he expected to be entertaining the upper Fifth Avenue clique and a few other millionaires listed in both the telephone and the "Blue" books.

According to Scandrel the big grift came in the weekly rent handed over by those clients who were suffering from too much Wall Street, a deep friendship with boot- leggers and an overabundance of Broadway. From the gab I gathered Ottie expected to rent his Indian clubs out at a dollar fifty a swing and the other instruments to increase the muscles and decrease the bank balance at rates that were equally as usurious. To diminish a long story, his patter was of such interest that when he turned the nose of his latest horseless carriage north the next day I was in the front seat beside him.

With only a mere half dozen warnings from traffic officials who failed to take to my boy friend's driving, we hit White Plains in the main boulevard, went this way, that way and forty minutes later were in that part of Westchester that was more country than the country itself.

There were hills and rills, high spots and low spots, farmhouses and charm houses on every hand and along every foot.

"This here Wellington trap is eight minutes ahead," Ottie informed me at length. "Listen. It's apt to tear the shirt off your back with laughter but don't smile when we steam through. The jobbies who hang out there are terrible sensitive. Honest, the bunch of them are so narrow-minded that you could button their ears at the back of their necks. I gave the post office a snicker the first day I come up to look the property over, the sheriff heard about it and it cost me three dollars and a pint of Brooklyn rye to keep out of the box. That's the kind of a slab it is."

And it was.

Wellington, once we gassed in, proved to be rural to the extreme. It's principal thoroughfare had been left unpaved for the benefit of the six or eight chickens that escaped disaster by inches. There were two stores on one side of the way and one and a half on the other, to say nothing of a photo-drama shop that advertised "The Four Horsemen of the Covered Wagon."

Groups of village loungers stood here and there and gaped as we went past. During the ordeal Ottie's face was as severe as a boarding-house gas bill.

"Get on to them yicks, Joe," he mumbled. "Look at that big clown who's resting his feet by the laundry and slant his clothes. For a fact, a fashion plate like him belongs in a dinner set. I'll bet he thinks musical comedy is something you spread on crackers!"

Accompanied by as many stares as the average immigrant gives Ellis Island, we shot up a hill, turned to the right and running under a big new sign that read "Five Acres," pulled up to the porch of a rambling, white colonial homestead that had enough pillars for a couple of dozen twin beds.

"This is it!" Ottie exclaimed with no small degree of pride. "And if it ain't the kitten's cookies then George Washington never buckled on a sword. Wait until I turn this car out to pasture and then I'll show you around the premises."

He had hardly finished speaking before Looie Pitz rode up on a bicycle. followed closely by Dangerous Dave McFinn, a big set-up in a white sweater who would have given any toad a run for first honors in a contest for frightful faces. Pitz steered the front wheel of the bicycle into Ottie's leg, fell off, picked himself up and arranged his cravat.

"Five miles up the dales and down the hills. How are you feeling, kid? You seemed to be lagging on the last mile."

"What do you mean— lagging?" McFinn growled. 'How could I go faster when I was running up on the back wheel of your bike? Hey, ride that and don't ride me. I guess I didn't have to come up here to learn how to move my feet. I'm a New York boy and—"

"Put a circuit breaker on that noise!" Pitz interrupted. "If conceit was consumption you'd be coughing your head off. I'm your manager— not no six-day bicycle rider. To-morrow you'll do your roadwork on the Tarrytown boulevard."

"Like fun!" McFinn snapped. "I seen a Sunbonnet Sue doing some garden exercises down the road a piece and she looked pretty nifty. I like this route fine. If you don't, I'll ride the wheel and you do the running!"

With that he tottered away, leaving Ottie to snicker.

"Quite the comedian, eh, Looie? Where are you going to spring that baby— at the Palace?"

Pitz looked at his watch and then asked me the time.

"The Palace me eye— he's got too many queens on his mind as it is. He thinks he has Al Jolson tied for the laughs but a couple of good slappings will change his tunes. Really, I think I'll be able to cash in on this party. He punches like a slot ma- chine, packs a kick like a guy looking for a raise in wages, never whines about punish- ment and has a greyhound looking slow. when it comes to speed. I've got him on the docket for a prelim at College Point on the nineteenth of the month with a run-around who signs himself 'Nitric Acid' O'Neal. I look for him to go far."

"He undoubtedly will," Scandrel barked, "about six feet— down to kiss the canvas. I may be wrong but he don't look to me as if he could alarm a clock. And I know for a fact that most of those big gimicks haven't hardly any appetite for the ring refreshments."

"How do you mean— ring refreshments?"

"Punch!" Ottie grinned. 'Come on, bring your shoes inside, Joe, and I'll show you around."

"You won't see much, O'Grady," Pitz cut in. "The only health you'll get up here will come from not being able to overeat!"

Ottie's gym in the rear of the place was quite a landmark with its brand-new secend-hand fixtures that ran from rings and swings to rowing, chest and weighing machines. I was presented to Master Tin Ear O'Brien, who held the portfolio of all-around assistant and to six or eight hard eggs who handled the rub-down end of it on a weekly salary that consisted of board and whatever pockets they could pick. O'Brien was a tall Scandinavian with one of those pans that made the visitor wonder how any one could be so ugly and still exist. He had formerly been in the belt business but had retired when some customer of his own weight had accidentally dropped a couple of gloves on the end of his chin.

After we watched Dangerous Dave McFinn cool out we gave the orchard a glance, counted the apples and took a look at the barns and outbuildings before returning to the main pavilion again.

We reached it as Tin Ear O'Brien shuffled out and spoke to Scandrel.

"Listen, boss. I disremembered to tell you, but between nine o'clock this morning they was a party looking for you on the telephone. I— now— the name sort of skips my mind, but he says for me to tell you that he's riding up here at five this afternoon. So you had better stick around."

"It's a good thing ankles don't unhook," Ottie snarled. "If they did you'd never be able to take a walk. How many times have I told you to write down the names of all the people who buzz me on the chicory? Honest, you'd make a false tooth ache. Get alone with yourself somewhere and think up the name before I slap the taste out of your mouth!"

Brain strain on O'Brien's part was unnecessary for at five o'clock promptly fifteen thousand dollars' worth of motor car rushed up to the front porch, a chauffeur and a footman in livery had a fist fight to see who would open the door first and out of the big truck alighted a stout gentleman who resembled money from the top of his high silk hat to the tips of his low, patent-leather scows.

He carried weight for age, a complexion that would have stopped a train and a walking stick with a platinum knob.

"I presume," he puffed, once he had dropped anchor in the front parlor, "I am expected."

Ottie dusted off a chair, passed a box of Corona— Long Island— cigars and snapped a speck of dust from his sleeve "Er— now— my secretary is a little deef. We're having his ears repaired next week. He didn't get your name off the wire this morning."

"I'm Channing Lamont," the other explained, taking the hint. "I want to speak with you on a confidential matter," he added with a look in my direction.

"Talk freely," Ottie invited. "This here is Joe O'Grady, a pal of mine. Joe wouldn't think no more of opening his mouth to pass a secret than I would of trying to catch a sardine in the middle of the Atlantic with my bare hands. From looking at you," he rushed on, "I won't make no positive guarantee, but if I won't boil off ten or fifteen pounds of that excess baggage you're carrying around—"

"One minute!" Lamont interrupted in a voice that matched his complexion. '"You're evidently laboring under a false impression. I didn't come up here to reduce my avoirdupois, young man!"

"Ha-ha!" Scandrel guffawed. "Pardon my social error, er— what did you come up for?"

Lamont helped himself from his cigar case but neglected to pass it around.

"I'll explain as briefly as possible. First of all, have you ever heard of Tarkington van Riker?"

I had the bulge on Ottie there.

Any one whose literary education had not been neglected when it came to the daily newspapers had heard of Tarkington van Riker. The young man mentioned had been a sensation in Wall Street where, as a bucket-shop plunger, he had made and lost fortunes with the nonchalant ease of a colored hall boy matching pennies with the janitor. From what I remembered reading, Van Riker had been a clerk in a Stock Exchange house and had started his career by a three-dollar stock purchase that hadn't stopped growing until his winnings ran to the four-figure mark and the bottom had fallen out of the market.

Being busted meant as much to Tarkington van Riker as a run in a silk stocking to the wife of a hosiery manufacturer. After his first financial flop he sold a couple of dress suits and with the proceeds went back to take another tumble out of the ticker. From then on it was a case of him having it or not having it. A scenic railway was straight compared with Van Riker's ups and downs.

Channing Lamont acquainted Scandrel with these facts.

"Yeah? So this Van Riker's in Wall Street, is he? What do you want me to do— buy some of his stocks?"

Lamont glared.

"This Van Riker buccaneer is in love with my daughter Alice. Do you get that?— he's in love with my daughter Alice!"

"Well, what does that make me?" Ottie snickered.

"And my daughter Alice," Lamont roared, "is in love with him!"

Scandrel looked at me and winked.

"I hear them tell how these things do happen now and then. What else?"

Lamont jammed his cigar back in his face.

"From information my daughter Alice dropped the other night at dinner I have learned that Van Riker is coming up here next week. After his last fiasco in the Street, his physician has advised a complete rest and change."

"He'll get the change all right if he comes across with it!"

"My daughter Alice," Lamont went on, "is also coming up here next week, ostensibly to visit her aunt who has a bungalow over at Rosewood. Do you grasp the plot?"

"Certainly. What do you think I am— thick? Er— I get it all. You want me to see that your daughter Alice and the Van Riker party don't lose no time in getting together for a fling at this pastime known as matrimony. Am I right or wrong?"

Channing Lamont climbed out of his chair. He threw the cigar away, bit the end from a fresh one and broke that in half.

"That's the very thing I don't want you to do! My daughter might be a silly, irresponsible girl but I don't intend to stand back and let her marry a common gambler like this Van Riker. I want you to do everything in your power to head them off. I want you to keep tabs on Van Riker and make certain that while he's here he isn't with her. I don't want him to see her. Nip this romance in the bud, keep them apart and I'll be willing to double the amount Van Riker pays you for the period of his rest cure!"

Ottie rubbed his hands like a secondhand clothes dealer at the sight of a bargain in a fur-lined coat.

"Fair enough! I'll step on love's young scheme like a grape! Just leave this to me, Mr.— now— Lamont. Knocking 'the man out of romance is my salad suit— the clothes I wear for the mayonnaise. I'll fix this bim so he'll look at matrimony the same as double pneumonia; I will for a positive fact!"

With his color close to normal again, Lamont collected cane and tipper.

"Then I'll rely on you. Before I go, tell me this. Is there anything else you would like to know?"

"Yes— your weight!" Scandrel yelped. "Listen. For two hundred and fifty cash I'll take the sill off that bay window you're carrying around. I'll iron out a couple of those unnecessary chins and I'll have you romping around like a two year old crying to go."

Before Channing Lamont was allowed to get away he had promised to come up in the late summer for a couple of weeks!

"It's a gift," I said when we were alone. "Anybedy else would have been pinched for slander— making remarks like that."

Ottie chuckled.

"Give me credit, Joe. If I could make a date with the King of Italy, it's dollar bills to doughnuts, I could talk him out of his crown!"

A day or two later Tarkington van Riker wrote for reservations for himself and valet. Ottie dashed off an answer that Tin Ear O'Brien beat out on the typewriter, hurled it into an envelope and, stepping on the gas, rushed down to Wellington's ludicrous post office where business was falling off on account of the price of stamps. The missive registered, we took a new road and started back to Five Acres. Halfway between the village and the farm we were given a dash of comic opera.

Turning from one road into another the motor shied at the sight of a girl in a sunbonnet who, with a hoe in one graceful hand, was busy in a garden that appeared to grow everything with the possible exception of bananas. One look was enough for Scandrel who immediately threw on all of the four-wheel brakes that were working and nudged me.

"One of the cabbage queens, Joe. Ain't that sunbonnet becoming? I'll park here until she turns around if it takes from now until Sunday-night supper. I want to see what kind of a face she's wearing with that handsome blond hair of hers."

"You're a nut for the years!" I snapped. "This girl is probably the same one McFinn was speaking about the other day. Drive on and don't annoy her. Vegetables are high priced enough as it is."

"Get out and walk if you don't want to sit here and wait! What wren ever got annoyed by any one looking at her? I like her sunbonnet and I like her sunburn. I like—"

The girl turned and Ottie stopped speaking as quickly as if some one had stolen his watch.

There was a reason, for if either of us expected to see a great big blond mamma who was a panic in the line of looks, neither of us was doomed to disappointment.

The Maude Muller on the other side of the garden fence was comely, blue-eyed, crimson-lipped and the owner of a complexion that she might have picked from one of the peach trees in the rear of the place. And to make the bargain fair all around she had a smile that made the celebrated sunshine look like an inch of blown-out candle.

She was beauty plus!

"We— I beg your pardon," Ottie mumbled. "Er— have you got a match to spare?"

Mistress Looker rested dimpled arms on the fence and smiled over it.

"No, I'm sorry but I haven't. I left my cigarettes, holder and match box up at the house. Tell me— how does my garden look from your side of the road?"

Ottie buttoned his jacket, grinning like a foundling at the sight of a nursery full of toys.

"Baby, I'll tell the neighbors you certainly grow a delightful lettuce. We all eat vegetables, so we ought to get acquainted. The names over here are Scandrel and O'Grady. Stay just where you are for a minute and give us the low-down on the beans and parsley."

She did.

Still featuring the delightful smile she informed us that her name was Amabel Biggs, that she was interesting nineteen, ran down to Manhattan every so often, hadn't missed the Ziegfeld "Follies" since she had quit the little red school on the hill for good, and only lived at Wellington because New York was so full of hicks.

Scandrel took all of this with the greatest of interest and immediately gave her a helping of his own autobiography. Any one listening in on the conversation would have gone away with the idea that he was as well-known as Forty-second Street, as popular as light wines and beer, as free with his money as Monte Carlo and a bigger sport than either baseball or horse racing.

"Now that we're all friends," he wound up, "be through with the dishes at eight o'clock punctual. I'm coming to take you buggy riding if you can stand this bus."

Miss Biggs registered enthusiasm.

"Won't that be fun! I'd love to go. And that reminds me. Who's that big boy in the white sweater I see passing along here every day?"

Ottie looked at me.

"Grab that one while it's hot, Joe. Who's the big boy in the white sweater? Listen, Delicious," he said to the girl, "that party is only a goofy box fighter who'll be on crutches any time after the nineteenth. He's so rough that he uses a rake as a side comb and he's got a personality as thrilling as a hangnail. Not only that but he's so mean that his knees are the only thing that give. Dismiss the idea instantly."

"I was just wondering," the girl giggled. "For the last few days he's been chasing a man on a bicycle and he hasn't caught him yet."

Equal that!

A week later Tarkington van Riker, with valet, motor and more luggage than a musical show, reached the Scandrel layout and caused some eye widening.

The Captain Kidd of Wall Street turned out to be everything we hadn't expected him to be. Van Riker was short, plump and smug— a quiet, taciturn individual with a round, moon face, a habit of coughing and a pair of feet that could have been used for transporting freight if they had been floated.

"I am Tarkington van Riker," he said the minute he alighted, waving a hand at a young man who began throwing valises out of the car. "And this is Jepson, my faithful valet."

"One of the Westchester valleys, hey?" Ottie snickered. 'Break out all the luggage, Jep, and get it up to Suite 13. Make it fast!"

"Yes, sir. Directly, sir," the valet answered, picking up four bags and turning so we had a look at him.

Sweet lavender!

Jepson, in his way, was as good looking as the fair Miss Biggs of the cabbage patch. He was young, he was well built, he looked like the best part of Park Avenue and he had a face that any movie director would have been glad to put on the screen.

In fact he was so handsome that Scandrel stared with open mouth until he and the luggage had vanished together.

"What male chorus did he use to work in, Van?"

The terror of the Stock Exchange coughed and turned his eyes from the doorway.

"Oh, Jepson, you mean? Yes, he was formerly a haberdashery salesman on Fifth Avenue. I rather liked his looks and so I took him on. He's very meek and he's proved very satisfactory. If you'll pardon me I'll go upstairs and see if he's getting things to rights."

A half hour after that I wandered into the gym and found the loungers talking Van Riker and valet over.

"Lovely roses!" Dangerous Dave McFinn was sneering. "The ticker tramp looks half-way human but his man servant girl is twice as sweet as candy. When I seen him I couldn't figure out if I ought to slap him on the wrist or the jaw. He's one of them sweet young things that always makes it a case of hate at first sight. I only wish he would touch my necktie. I'd knock him so hard that he'd wake up with a French accent!"

"Yes, you would," Tin Ear O'Brien cut in quickly. "Lay a finger on any of the boss' boarders and we'll ship you out to College Point in pine. Leave me hear you open that thing you call a mouth and I'll break you in half!"

"Like heck you will!" McFinn shrieked. "You couldn't punch the icing off a layer cake! Come on— make good!"

Without waiting for a second invitation O'Brien shot over a couple of fast ones which the other blocked. What bore all the earmarks of exciting fisticuffs was ended by the appearance of Looie Pitz who, taking a couple of stray punches in the ear, got in between them.

"You witless half-wit, you!" Pitz screamed at his protégé. 'Is this where you leave your fight with O'Neal— after me spending my money and losing fourteen pounds riding the bicycle? I ought to have left you stoking the boiler in that apartment house se

"Speak to him!' McFinn mumbled, giving O'Brien a look as sharp as cutlery. "Sure, he should give me a black eye! What do you care? You ain't got a date with a gal that you just met yesterday for the first time—"

"What girl?"

The light-heavyweight reached in a pocket, took out a carrot, gazed at it fondly and sighed.

"A sweet little skirt by the name of Biggs. But don't be asking no more personal questions. I'm going down the road a piece now to see her. Try to stop me and you'll find my contract upstairs under the mattress!"

Pitz was diplomatic if nothing else. Putting everything he had into a smile he patted the big boy on the shoulder.

"That's all right, kid. If there's anything I like to see it's a boy and a gal going down the fork of the road to spoon. But keep your hat on in the sun."

"What do you think I am— refined like that Jepson joke— taking my lid off the minute a dame comes along?" was McFinn's retort. "So long— I'll be back for dinner."

"You tell 'em, you will!" Tin Ear O'Brien murmured in a voice that sounded like bot- tles breaking.

Starting the next day, Tarkington van Riker became Scandrel's willing victim. Ottie put him over the jumps in the Steeplechase for Health and though the wizard of Wall Street grumbled frequently, he fell off the pad at six o'clock for the mile sprint that was his eye opener, did his gym work and all the rest of it as faithfully as could be expected with Scandrel never letting him out of his sight.

If the patient, perspiring Van Riker led a strenuous existence, the meek, mild and handsome Jepson enjoyed the popular life of Riley. The good-looking valet never arose before ten o'clock, took breakfast, wandered away and didn't show up again until dinner time. Like his master, Jepson said little and if the pointed remarks of Dangerous Dave McFinn and the gym rubbers were overheard by the beautiful youth they were disregarded entirely.

When it came to quiet, the faithful Jepson had a henpecked husband looking like a victrola playing jazz with the doors wide open.

"So good, so far," Ottie said at breakfast a week later. "I had Channing Lamont on the long distance last night and I gave him the dirt. When I told him that Van hasn't been three feet away from me and the farm, Lamont was as tickled as if I had used a feather. Believe me, I'll get an attractive dime for this trouble."

Before I could answer Tin Ear O'Brien shuffled in.

"Hey, listen, boss. Didn't you not tell me that if any frail come around here asking for Mr. van Riker I should give you a tip off?"

"I said those very words. What about it?"

"She's outside now!" the ex-welterweight hollered.

Scandrel pushed aside a couple of eggs that were so fresh they were impertinent and pulled on his coat.

"Come on, Joe. You beat it back to the gym," he instructed O'Brien. 'You might scare the chicken, Radio."

"What's the idea of calling me Radio?"

"Because you're such a loud speaker!" Ottie yelped. "Take the air!"

When we reached the front porch it was to find a snappy little roadster drawn up at the front doorstep. In it was seated a girl with dark-brown hair, soulful eyes, but an expression that seemed to suggest the fact that while she was long on looks she was short on brains. She wore some wise scenery that had probably been snatched out of the latest fashion periodicals, a hat with a feather in it, and was listening intently to something Dangerous Dave McFinn, who stood with one foot on the running board, was saying.

One look was enough to ignite Ottie.

"You've got a nerve!" he bawled at Pitz's marvel. "Who told you to dock here and get friendly? And ain't you got manners enough to remove your hat when you're talking to a lady? Take it off! Put it on! Beat it before I break your back!"

McFinn mumbled something and slouched away. Ottie buttoned his coat and toyed with an introduction. The girl, a dangerous worker with the eyes, gave him a lovely smile.

"I'm Alice Lamont. I wonder if I can see Tarkie van Riker for a minute or two. I've got something I want to ask him."

Ottie sighed and shook his head.

"Not a chance in the world, Cutey. It's against the rules. I couldn't let you in if you were Cleopatra willing to give me a piece of the Nile for the favor. That's that!"

Miss Lamont pouted demurely.

"I didn't think such a nice-looking man could be so mean. Please let me speak with Tarkie. If you don't, "l— I'll cry!"

Scandrel looked at me.

"Listen, Bright Eyes, don't be like that. Er— give me the message and I'll see that Van Riker gets it as fast as special delivery."

The young lady drew a breath.

"This is the way it is. The ladies of the Wellington Knitting Guild are giving a fair and bazaar next Monday night at the Town Hall. I came over to ask Tarkie if he wouldn't loan us Jepson, his valet, to help with the decorations. That Mr. McFinn I was talking with has volunteered to come over and help and i—"

"Don't say another word!" Ottie barked. "Jep is yours if I have to take him out in the back yard and beat him like an Oriental rug. I'll get him right away."

He disappeared, leaving the girl to look me over. She had just finished when Scandrel returned, followed meekly by the quiet Jepson.

"Here he is, Cunning. Use him all you want but be sure and give him his lunch. And Looie Pitz says he'll let McFinn crash in around two bells to lend a hand. Er—  if I ain't got a date to-night I might run in and take a look around. I used to be in the decorating business myself."

"Really! Houses?" Miss Lamont lisped.

"No— faces! Get in, Stupid!" Scandrel hissed at Jepson. "So long, honey. Don't be sore because I wouldn't let you go inside. Remember— people who live in paper houses shouldn't throw scissors!"

The snappy little roadster purred away.

"I thought you were friendly with the blond Miss Biggs?" I said. '"You're as fickle as a bigamist."

Ottie curled a lip.

"Yeah? That's what you think. Can't I be polite without cracking a proposal? Picture me moving furniture around for a fair when I can take a walk with Amabel and not lift a finger. Beauty is beauty but hard work is labor. Anyhow, that doll seemed sort of dumb to me and look at blondie. She swings a fascinating hoe and already she tells me I'm a stylish dresser. I'll bet regular money she hasn't told McFinn and Jepson that yet."

I stuck out an ear.

"Who?"

"Yes, McFinn has been buzzing around and she's been out with Jep a few times but that worries me like a burnimg barrel in a vacant lot does a fireman. How can either of them figure when they've got competition like me? And that reminds me, Joe. You stick around and watch Van this afternoon while I go up and see Amabel. She's promised me a couple of cabbages and some celery. That's the kind of a rib to be friendly with, eh?"

Dangerous Dave McFinn, as more time elapsed, eased off on the heavy work. Outside of his morning gambol along the highways, and little light gym duties, he spent most of his time up at the cabbage patch. McFinn looked fit and ready for the College Point glove bouncing and Pitz, who had worked over him like a sweatshop operator on a pair of serge trousers, was as pleased with his results as a girl using a lip stick for the first time. The light-heavy continued to sneer at both the perfect Jepson and Tin Ear O'Brien, but hostilities were quickly suppressed by Scandrel or Pitz himself. Even the taciturn Van Riker took a hand when Ottie's assistant and the big bruiser almost came to blows on one occasion over a pair of Indian clubs.

In such fashion Monday approached with the fair and bazaar at the Town Hall and Wednesday with the battle on the boards in that dear East River resort.

At seven o'clock Monday morning, Ottie rushed off in the car with Van Riker galloping along at the rear axle. They had hardly disappeared before Pitz, game but melancholy, threw a leg over his favorite bicycle for the last stretch of road work his meal ticket was scheduled to rip off before leaving Tuesday morning.

"This bicycle riding has knocked me for a twist," Looie moaned. "Between the wheel and the kid chasing around with the blondes and brunettes I'm on the verge of a breakdown. All set, Dave? Come on— pursue me!"

McFinn opened his sweater.

"Hey, Looie," Tin Ear O'Brien yelled when both were ready to breeze. "Why don't you turn the wheel in and buy a motor cycle?"

"Who asked you to speak, Foolish?" McFinn growled. "Don't be putting ideas like that in my manager's head. I've a good mind to chuck a stone at you for butting in. All right, boss. Move the pedals!"

"I'll get that gil yet!" O'Brien fumed when we were alone. '"Ottie says I'll lose the portfolio of assistant manager if I start anything, but I'll get him if I have to poison his oatmeal and use an iron bar!"

That was a vow.

There was no sign of Ottie until early in the afternoon when he locked Tarkie van Riker in his room and came down on the porch to give me a nudge and one of the handbills advertising the fair at the Town Hall the same night.

"Read this, Joe. Quite the event, what? Er— I've been trying to get Amabel on the telephone and invite her to blow down there with me to-night but so far the wire hasn't answered and she's not around the garden. I'd like to lay bets that she and Jep have gone over to Tarrytown in a hired hack. Honest, for a valet that boy spends money like an intoxicated spendthrift. I don't know what wages Van pays him, but they're a mistake, no matter how much."

At four o'clock Ottie phoned the Biggs household again. There was no answer. At five he did the same thing over again with the same results. The big beautiful blonde was not home at six and the wire didn't respond at half past six, seven o'clock or twenty minutes after seven. When there was still nothing stirring at eight Scandrel, with three nails left on his right hand, was willing to acknowledge defeat.

"Mebbe the hack broke down somewhere, Joe. But that's neither here nor there. I'll give this Jepson a fast line when I see him. It's better to have loved and lost than to have gotten a broken nose. Come on, let's me and you run down to the Town Hall ourselves and look these knitting freaks over. Er— if you'll wait a minute I'll slip upstairs and slip on my cocktail suit. I might not be the best-known person there but I'll be the best dressed, I really will!"

When we reached the scene of carnival it was to find the entire population of Wellington present. The Town Hall was lighted up like a frost-bitten peak. There were at least twenty flivvers parked at the curb. We purchased a pair of admission tickets from a cross-eyed young man in a hard-boiled shirt and a cutaway coat.

"One dollar ninety each," he informed us when my boy friend laid down a quarter.

"So you know we're from New York?" Ottie hissed. "What do you mean— one dollar and ninety cents?"

"The ninety cents is the war tax, mister."

This statement made Scandrel sneer.

"War tax, is it? You silly mock turtle, haven't you heard the war is over? Step out here a minute and let me tell you a secret."

The ticket seller came out of his booth, licking his lips.

"Yes, mister. What kind of a secret?"

"This!" Ottie bellowed, planting a right uppercut directly on the unfortunate paste-board passer's chin. "The next time you want to have some more fun make an appointment with me by mail."

We went up a flight of stairs and into the hall. There, the first thing we saw was the youth and beauty of Wellington tripping around from booth to booth, dressed like a burlesque show. We hardly had an eyeful before a stout lady in pink satin rushed up to the startled Ottie and pinned a lily on his lapel.

"Isn't that just adorable?" she gushed. "Two dollars please."

She snatched a bank note from him, rushed away and was replaced by one of the village belles who carried a notebook and a pencil.

"Handsome stranger," this girl lisped, "I just know you 're going to take a chance on a diamond ring to help the benefit. You are, aren't you?"

Ottie gave me a helpless look.

"I'll need a benefit myself after this. Two fish for a pansy that don't smell so good as it is. A diamond ring, you say? That's different. I'll take all the chances you've got left. Who can tell? I might get engaged any time— to a blonde."

"A short wife and a merry one!" the pride of Main Street cooed, taking another chunk out of Scandrel's bank roll.

From then until the time we reached the rear of the layout Ottie impersonated a sailor with a shore leave and a pocketful of rupees. He took chances on a half dozen pairs of knitted wristlets, a cream separator, an incubator, a red-flannel shirt and a pair of rubber boots. He put a dent in four different layer cakes at seventy-five cents a cut and tanked up on lemonade at a dime a sip. Further disaster was only prevented when we encountered Looie Pitz outside of a fortune teller's tent, sobbing in his handkerchief.

"Say you!" Ottie barked. "What's the matter— did somebody crook your bicycle?"

"You boys here?" Pitz moaned. "I just got an awful pushing around from a dame in a dunce cap. Her name is Lady Mysteria and she told my fortune three ways. She give me terrible news. She says I'm in for a big disappointment, that everything I counted on is going to flop and that I should beware of a dark woman. I suppose that means the colored girl who called. for the laundry yesterday. What'll I do?"

"Did she read your palm?" I inquired.

Pitz put his handkerchief away.

"I never thought of that. I'll go back and get her to look at it. Maybe I've got some good news on my hands after all!"

He vanished into the tent like a sheik while Ottie and I did a turn into the refresh- ment section. Here was a soda-water fountain with the customers hanging on three deep, looking for the cracked ice and automatically feeling for the brass rail with their brogans. The first thing we saw after the fizz counter was Miss Lamont making merry over a nut sundae with Master McFinn, who wore a suit that looked as if it had been cut from a livery-stable blanket.

We had hardly lamped the two before we saw Tin Ear O'Brien and the rub-down crew singing their college songs and lifting steins of root beer at a table in a corner. After that the next thing on the ledger was Ottie's heel on my instep.

"Here they come now, Joe! Watch me dish this Jepson baby like Eyetalian spaghetti. He's got more crust than pie— keeping my sweetie out as late as this!"

I looked in the same direction he was staring and perceived the charming Miss Amabel Biggs hanging on the arm of the quiet Jepson, whose smile was that of a puss after a supper of catnip. With hardly a glance in any direction they took the next table to the one held down by a person we recognized immediately as being no less than Tarkington van Riker himself. Miss Biggs slid into a chair but as luck would have it Jepson failed to make the hook above him for his hat and the dicer, slipping out of his hand, hit the wall, bounced off and landed accurately on the head of Dangerous Dave McFinn.

Like lightning McFinn sprang out of his chair, tore the brim from the hat and threw it in the astonished face of the valet.

"You big mockie!" he roared. "You did that on purpose! You can't insult me when I'm with a lady! I never did like you and now I hate you! Put up your dukes. I'm going to give you the cuffing of a lifetime!"

Before any one, Scandre! least of all, could interfere, Tin Ear O'Brien, tearing himself away from his merry comrades, reached Jepson's side in oue spring and two bounds.

"Sit down, you big stiff!" the ex-welter-weight snarled. "When you talk of battling with this boy you're talking about a fight with me! I've got a little hate myself on board! Get back there to your table or I'll knock you cold!"

Wham!

Snapping over a beautiful right hook that would have surely meant curtains if it had landed, McFinn threw himself at O'Brien and quicker than instantly an interesting exhibition of the manly art was in progress.

Screams of alarm mingled with confused cries and a few feminine shrieks, as the two went at it hammer and tongs.

"As the shoemaker said when the boat was sinking— every man to the pumps!" Scandrel bellowed. "Pardon me a minute, Joe. I think I'm needed elsewhere!"

Hurling a dozen or more spectators roughly aside he reached the scene of conflict, tore off his coat and sprang into the heart of it. There were too many people in the way for me to get a robin's-eye view of exactly what transpired. When I got to the front of the crowd it was to find McFinn, Scandrel and Tin Ear O'Brien in a tangle on the floor— one or two of them completely out!

The light-heavyweight, in a sudden silence so profound that the fall of an acorn would have deafened a squirrel, staggered to his feet and reeled over to Jepson, who had been an interested bystander.

"You goofy cake eater!" McFinn mumbled. "I'm going to get you after all!"

The quiet valet removed both hands from his pockets and smiled.

"After," he corrected amiably, "I get you first!"

Allowing a left-handed sock to glide harmlessly past his handsome head, the young man stepped forward and swung himself— with both hands. The duet of punches might have been helped along by luck and accident combined but both landed and both registered. Without bothering to say good-by to any one present Dangerous Dave McFinn did a somersault over a chair and crumpled up under a table!

"My word!" I heard Tarkington van Riker gasp.

The next climax in the festival of fightand fright was the appearance of the stout Mr. Channing Lamont who took the center of the stage at the same minute that Scandrel used his feet to stand on again. Lamont swept the place with his glance and looked at Ottie, his face two shades redder than scarlet.

"So this is the manner in which you told me I could rely on you!" Lamont thundered. "You scoundrel, my sister in Rosewood wrote me to say my daughter Alice has been seeing Van Riker every day! Is this the way—"

"The summer weather has affected your intelligence!" Ottie croaked. "He ain't been out of my sight for two minutes in two weeks. Look at him over there. Does he look as though he's been carrying on the love affairs?"

Lamont wheeled around and glared in the direction Ottie indicated. Then his mouth opened slightly and his eyes widened.

"You imbecile, that isn't Van Riker— that's Jepson, his valet!"

At this the young man who had knocked McFinn for a goal took off the brass knuckles he had been wearing, dropped them carelessly back in his pocket, and laughed.

"Perhaps I had better explain," he said to Lamont and Scandrel jointly. "When I told Alice I intended to come up here she told me about the characters in a magazine story she had been reading. It sounded good. So I decided that I'd be Jepson, the valet, and that Jepson would be Tarkington van Riker temporarily. Get the point? The idea worked splendidly but it had one flaw in it. That is, Alice and I discovered we did not care for each other as much as we had imagined and so you haven't any cause for further worry, Mr. Lamont. Eh— as a matter of fact a Miss Biggs and myself ran over to Tarrytown this afternoon and were married there."

He turned to the blushing Amabel as Alice Lamont giggled.

"And oh, dad," she cooed, using her soulful eyes, "I know you are going to be frightfully angry with me but I suppose I might as well tell you now and have it over with. I'm engaged, too. It was simply a case of love at first sight with us both. You always objected to handsome men but now you won't have any cause for complaint. He's so sweet but so homely and—"

"Stop right there!" Channing Lamont roared. 'Who is this man? Where is he?"

The brown-haired Alice nodded at the motionless figure of Dangerous Dave McFinn.

"Over there— under that table, dad!" she giggled again. "No, I'm not a bit worried either. He's the strongest thing. And he told me a knock-out is part of his business!"

Smile that one away!

Fifteen minutes more or less later, as Scandrel and myself passed the tent of the fortune teller in the main room, Looie Pitz, wearing an expression like that of a bride-to-be on her wedding morn, came out, rubbing his hands.

"You boys back again?" he chuckled. "Say, listen. I just now got my palm read and the news couldn't be better. Lady Mysteria tells me that I'm going to get the surprise of my life right away. And that ain't all. Guess what else she said?"

"What else did she say?" Ottie mumbled.

Pitz pulled down his cuffs.

"That somebody is going to steal my bicycle! Ain't it true—it never rains but it gets wet!"

What's your wave length?

_____________________

9: The Strange Adventures of Mr. John Smith in Paris

Jacques Futrelle

1875-1912

Sunday Magazine, 26 June, 1910

Not a "Thinking Machine" story but a substantial novelette of some 29,000 words.

FROM the mottled front of the Gare du Nord in the gathering gloom of dusk, Mr. John Smith took his first look at Paris; and so far as he could see, it didn't have a thing on Passaic, New Jersey. No fine frenzy of imagination was kindled by this initial glimpse of the wonder city of the world; he merely pondered how, in the absence of trolley cars, he could get down to the Rue de Main Street, or whatever they called it, where the hotels were. No unspeakable emotion, born of a long cherished dream come true, struggled within his soul; the thing uppermost in his mind was a deep seated craving for a fifteen minute stance with a beef stew that had lots of potatoes in it. It would require many beef stews, he figured, to fill the aching void caused by his eight-day ocean trip.

So, meditatively, for a time Mr. John Smith stood looking upon Paris with comparative eye. And the longer he looked the worse it was for Paris. The time stained, weather beaten buildings across the street were not one-two-nine with the new brick block back home; the rain drenched square before him was neither wider, nor grander, nor in any way more calculated to arouse his enthusiasm than was the square in front of the church at Passaic-ave. and Grove-st. Trim lines of trees edged the curbs straight away ahead of him; but they would be dwarfs if set down beside the trees back home. Awnings were flapping in the wind which drove the mist before it; but the awnings back home always flapped when the wind blew. The restless throng on the sidewalk was neither more restless nor more dense than the Saturday night crowd on Main-ave. And trolley cars! In the absence of these, Mr. Smith was surprised that Paris had even electric lights.

Back home in Passaic, New Jersey, Mr. John Smith was assistant paying teller of a bank. In person he looked precisely like the assistant paying teller of a bank

i n Passaic, New Jersey. His hair was wiry, straight, and of a dingy black; his face the rugged, strongly limned countenance of one who shaves often and scrupulously; and he had the direct, straight staring, unerring eyes of a man who lives for, by, and with figures, accustomed to seeing all that is writ and no more. He had never seen Niagara Falls, had Mr. Smith; but he knew to an ounce their capacity in horsepower if properly harnessed, and wondered why some one had not harmed them. He had never crossed the placid bosom of the majestic Hudson River without wondering why it had not been filled in and cut up into city lots. Of course the ocean was all right; they caught fish in that.

There were faint lines of weariness in Mr. Smith's face now, and the straight staring eyes were somber; not because of any disillusionment at his first sight of Paris, but because he was tired and sleepy and hungry He wanted to stretch his long legs in a real bed again after his eight nights of fitful slumber on a folding shelf in a stateroom. It was good to stand on something that didn't wabble, and it would be better to draw up to a table, beyond the sound of the heaving ocean, and eat. Heaving! Mr. Smith shuddered at the word.

These physical comforts provided, Mr. Smith would be prepared to rise and shake Paris in his teeth, as a terrier shakes a rat; for he had a purpose in Paris, did Mr. Smith, a purpose fixed, immutable, as was every purpose that ever laid hold of him. Nothing short of a purpose would ever have dragged him so far away from dear old Passaic. The somberness passed from the straight staring eyes and there came a glint of steel into them as that purpose recurred to him. It made him impatient to eat, to sleep, and to be at it. So the first thing was to find a hotel. He reentered the great railway station and approached a porter.

''Say, son," he began affably, "I want a hack."

The porter stared at him and shrugged his shoulders. "Non compren' pas" he said.

"A hack, a cab, a buggy," Mr. Smith explained.

The porter shook his head.

"A vehicle, a wagon, a truck."

The porter appeared to be suffering intensely in his efforts to understand. His shoulders were squirming, his arms writhing, the agony was depicted upon every line of his face.

"Something with wheels on it, you know, that turn round and round," Mr. Smith elucidated patiently. "An oxcart, a herdic, a bicycle, a wheelbarrow— something to ride in."

"Non compren' pas!" the porter wailed helplessly. Oh, the pain and sorrow in his face!

"Well, don't take it to heart so," Mr. Smith advised kindly. "I want to ride, do you understand? In a— a dray, or an omnibus, or a taxicab, or—"

"Taxi! Oui!"

The fuse had burned to the powder, and the explosion came; the serenity of a summer's day settled upon the porter's face. He seized upon Mr. Smith's suitcase and gently but firmly led him around to his right, where he ceremoniously bowed him into an automobile.

The chauffeur appeared at the door for instructions.

"Now, son, we're getting somewhere," Mr. Smith remarked pleasantly. " I want to go to a quiet little hotel where no one will think I'm a Standard Oil magnate. How about it?"

The chauffeur looked at the porter, and the porter looked at the chauffeur, They both seemed to be suffering.

"Non compren' pas!" the chauffeur complained.

Mr. Smith sighed deeply and prepared to go into details. "A hotel," he said distinctly, "a place where you eat and sleep. A hash house, a beanery?"

The chauffeur stared at him helplessly, then turned to the porter, and they rattled unanimously. Mr. Smith sat patiently waiting.

"A boarding house, a soup kitchen?" he told them. "A hotel? Why, dam it! isn't there such a thing as a hotel in Paris? Hotel! H-o-t-e-l!"

"Non compren' pas!" the porter and chauffeur bleated in unison.

Mr. Smith drew pencil and paper from his pocket and printed a word on it in large letters. "Hotel!" he bellowed at them suddenly.

They took the paper and read it. "Hôtel!" They burst into song triumphantly. The storm had passed; peace had come.

"Sure, a hotel," Mr. Smith agreed. "Now, son, that you're hep, understand me that I want a cheap little place where I can get a room and bath and something to eat at about two dollars and a half per, on the American plan? ''

"Oui, oui— Americaine!"

They seized upon the word they understood and bore it aloft. Mr. Smith was satisfied, and when the porter's palm was outstretched thrust his hand into his pocket. He had been doing that steadily ever since he left Passaic—good old Passaic! He dropped a coin into the waiting hand, then lounged back in the automobile.

"And bang went ten cents!" he quoted. The taxicab wriggled out into the Rue de la Fayette and went scudding along toward the Place de l'Opéra. Mr. Smith looked out the window with growing interest and wonder. 'Twas a biggish sort of place, after all, was Paris. Passaic would have to look to her laurels! He was whirled past the Opera House and into the Rue de la Paix.

The car stopped in the Place Vendome. Mr. Smith glanced up at the sign above the door of a hotel and felt a cold chill start at the base of his brain and run down his spinal column, after which it ran up again. It was one word, "Ritz!" That was no place for a young man with a hundred and seventy-three dollars, who might have to stay in Paris for five or six weeks. He leaned out and spoke to the chauffeur.

"Drive on!" he directed.

"Hotel Ritz," the chauffeur informed him complacently.

"I know it," said Mr. Smith. "Drive on! Giddap! Cluck-cluck!"

The chauffeur came around to the door to make it clear to Monsieur. This was a hotel, the Hotel Ritz.

"On your way!" Mr. Smith expostulated. "Sick him! Vamose!"

Three or four pedestrians paused to listen. Monsieur did not understand. Tney undertook to assist him. It was the Hotel Ritz! They assured Monsieur upon their words as gentlemen and upon the sacred honor of France that it was the Hotel Ritz. The three or four grew to a dozen, and they assured Monsieur it was the Hotel Ritz. Oh, la la! Mr. Smith sat patiently waiting for the hubbub to stop; and it only grew.

"I said a cheap hotel!" he roared suddenly, and that mighty voice from Passaic extinguished the jabber about him as the windstorm extinguishes a candle. "This is no place for me! Giddap! Skiddoo!"

Whereupon the chivalry of France bowed low and begged Monsieur to believe them when they assured him it was the Hotel Ritz. A sergeant de ville nosed his way through, and Monsieur could take it from him that these gentlemen were telling the truth. He gave way to an imposing individual who came out of the hotel, wearing more uniform than Napoleon ever saw. Mr. Smith thought he was the Chief of Police; but he was only the head porter, and he added his voice to the hubbub. Mr. Smith looked out upon the growing mob with amazement in his straight staring eyes.

AND then came to him faintly the voice of an angel, an angel from the United States, who seemed to be slightly amused. The crowd fell back respectfully, and a young woman stood before him, a tailor made young woman, trig and trim and charming. Her blue eyes were alight with understanding, and a smile tugged at the comers of her rosy mouth.

"Can't I assist you, Mr. Smith?" she queried, and the sound of his own language stirred a responsive chord deep in Mr. Smith's heart. "There has been some mistake, I am sure. Perhaps I can right it for you?"

"Thank you, ma'am," said Mr. Smith humbly, and it didn't occur to him to wonder that she knew his name. "I told the driver to take me to some cheap American plan hotel, and he didn't seem to understand. If you'll tell him, please, ma'am, I'll be much obliged."

"Certainly." With perfect gravity the girl turned and spoke to the chauffeur. After a moment he touched his cap and climbed back into the seat. The machine whirred and started to move.

"Thank you, ma'am." Mr. Smith said simply.

The girl smiled, nodded brightly, and entered another automobile which stood at the curb. Looking back, Mr. Smith saw her car swing about the Colonne Vendome, and then his own car turned into the Rue de Castiglione and she was lost.

"Why, Edna, how could you thrust yourself into a crowd like that?" a middle-aged woman inquired of the girl reprovingly. "It was not—"

"Why shouldn't I have done it. Aunty?" the girl interrupted. "Mr. Smith was a passenger on the steamer with us, and shipboard acquaintances are privileged to help one another when one is in trouble. And he was in trouble, wasn't he?"

She laughed a little, and then the mood passed and she sat for a long time staring out the window with sad, thoughtful eyes.

ii

HERE and there across the Seine some prodigal  giant has flung a handful of glittering stars in parallel arches; and these are bridges. As Mr. Smith's taxicab spun through the Garden of the Tuileries, and over one of these, where looking out he caught the reflection of ten thousand lights in the rippling waters, he was reminded of the bridge down near the orphan asylum back home in Passaic. It gave him a comforting sense of nearness to things he new, and he found it good. Paris was looking up; there was nothing to it.

Then he was whipped round a comer, and as he struggled to steady himself he caught the words "Rue Bonaparte" on a street sign under the full glare of an electric light, and sat up straight in his seat, aroused by some swift recollection. Rue Bonaparte! Here was a thing that he had momentarily forgotten, perhaps a tangible starting point of a search that might take weeks, given over into his hands by sheer luck. There had been a time a few years previously when, in his capacity of private secretary, he had been called upon to write that phrase at least once a week for many months. And now here was the place, the street itself, rolling away under his feet!

There was a quick, tense tightening of his lips, and a narrowing of his straight staring eyes as the thought the words had aroused grew in his mind, and he was just about to stop the taxicab, when he felt it slowing, and it came to a standstill half a block farther on. He stepped out and glanced up curiously at the six-story building towering above him. Yes, it was precisely as he expected, as he knew it ought to be, the Maison de Treville, which happens to be a quiet, eminently respectable place in the Latin Quarter, opposite the Beaux Arts. It was something more than a pension and not quite a hotel; but anyway a respectable place to live. Mr. Smith had known this for years; but it had slipped his memory.

He turned to the chauffeur with a mouthful of

questions; then, suddenly remembering the disaster that had befallen his previous attempts at conversation with this individual, restrained himself and turned into the entrance. From behind the desk in the lobby ajyoung man with delicately waxed mustache. superimposed upon an ingratiating smile, greeted him. Mr. Smith, wholly absorbed in the things he was remembering, glared at the young man with a cold glint of steel in his eyes.

"Something tells me, son, that you don't speak English either?" he remarked questioningly.

The amiable young man's eyebrows disappeared into his hair, and the smile widened. "Pardonnez-moi?" he queried.

"I'd have bet eight dollars you didn't," Mr. Smith continued in calm resignation. "Well, anyhow, I want a room—a room. Are you next? And a bath—a washee—washee place. And meals— food, eats. Do you get it?"

The clerk shrugged his shoulders and bowed and scraped and smiled. These Americans! Oh, la la! They are that droll! The smile wavered a little under the steady scrutiny of Mr. Smith's straight staring eyes; for he was thinking of other things, things that came to him afresh with the words "Rue Bonaparte."

"By the way. do you happen to know the name W. Mandeville Clarke?" Mr. Smith continued. " W. Mandeville Clarke? He isn't stopping here?"

"Qu'est-ce que c'est!" queried the clerk.

"W. Mandeville Clarke?" Mr. Smith repeated distinctly. He picked up a slip of paper and wrote the name on it, then passed it to the clerk. "W. Mandeville Clarke!"

"Oui! M. Clarke!" the clerk burst forth rapturously. Here was something he could lay his tongue to! "M. Clarke! Americaine!"

"You don't know any more what I'm talking about than a jaybird," Mr. Smith declared unemotionally. "My name isn't Clarke; my name is John Smith. I'm looking for a man named Clarke."

"M. Clarke! Oui, oui!" The clerk clung tenaciously to the thing he understood.

Mr. Smith leaned over, pulled the slip of paper from the clerk's reluctant fingers, tore it into four pieces, and dropped them to the floor. "Forget it!" he advised. "I wanted to know if Clarke was stopping here, and I stand a fine young chance of ever finding out from you, son. And, understand, my name isn't Clarke; my name is John Smith. Gimme that book!"

He jerked the register from beneath the hand of the astonished clerk and signed his name in it with a large flourish— just like the assistant paying teller of a bank in Passaic, New Jersey.

"Now, never mind Mr. Clarke," he told the clerk. "We'll fight that out to-morrow. The thing I most want in the world is a room—a room with four walls and a bed in it—a bed—sleep." Mr. Smith made a pillow of his two hands, laid his weary head on it, closed his eyes, and snored.

The clerk beamed his delight. "Sommeil! Oui!" he exclaimed.

"If that means sleep, you're on," Mr. Smith agreed with a sigh of satisfaction. "Now, eats!"

He dexterously applied an imaginary knife and fork and rubbed his stomach with feigned delight.

"Manger! Oui! oui!" There was the light of perfect understanding in the clerk's eyes.

"Now, son, you're showing symptoms of human intelligence," Mr. Smith remarked admiringly. "And now a bath— a swim— the Big Splash. Are you hep?"

Whereupon Mr. Smith laved his face and hands in the ambient air and splashed it all over the shop, after which he dried himself. The little clerk was delighted. Monsieur was an artist! There was nothing better in the Folies-Bergere! In other words the great Coquelin himself wasn't deuce high!

"Baigner!" he elucidated. "Oui, oui!"

And so, five minutes later, Mr. Smith found himself safely bestowed in a clean, sweet room five flights up. surrounded by his suitcase. Then came a small waiter with a large tray of food, and, sans collar, sans coat, Mr. Smith set himself to fill a long felt want. He did well.

iii

WHETHER Paris has the most perfect police system in existence because it is the wickedest city in the world, or whether it is the wickedest city in the world because it has the most perfect— well, anyway, they do it differently in Passaic. In Paris the police have succeeded in establishing a cycle of tattletales, an endless chain which makes every man a spy upon his fellows, and the effect is a marvelous, albeit an unpleasant, system of espionage. That is, it is unpleasant when one comes to think of the manner of its existence; for its operation is noiseless, unostentatious. It would not be possible in any other part of the world.

Being blessed with such extraordinary facilities, Paris keeps close watch on the casual stranger, if for no other reason than that it keeps the intricate machinery in motion. Paris is not only always willing, but glad, to lend assistance to the police of any sister city of the earth.

So, when a cable despatch came from a private detective agency in New York asking the Paris police to locate one W. Mandeville Clarke, Paris doffed her hat and went to work. It was not surprising, therefore, that while Mr. John Smith of Passaic was peacefully snoring five flights up in the Maison de Treville, an agent of the police, M. Remi, not without fame in his own calling, should appear in the office down stairs and make certain inquiries of the clerk.

Dark insinuations underlay his manner of questioning, and the beady black eyes of him scared the amiable smile out from under the little clerk's waxen mustache.

"M. Clarke— W. Mandeville Clarke?" the sleuth questioned.

Yes, the clerk remembered the name; he had heard it earlier in the evening; indeed, it had been written upon a slip of paper and handed to him. then snatched out of his hand— so— and destroyed.

"Ah!" It was a long aspirated expression of relief from M. Remi; the Remi reputation threatened to be crowned with new glory. "Ah! You will be so kind as to go on?"

The little clerk leaned forward dramatically. "I have reason to believe M. Clarke is here in the hotel even now, " he declared. " I will go further, Monsieur. I will say I am positive he is here! "

"Ah!" The cunning black eyes were alive as flames. "Your reasons. Monsieur?"

"He came here, an American, early in the evening, and his conduct was suspicious in the extreme," the little clerk ran on volubly. "He used strange American words, and a great many of them, although he must have known that I could not understand— I, who speak only the language of my beloved France."

"I am awaiting details, Monsieur," remarked M. Remi.

"When first he came he repeated the name W. Mandeville Clarke many times, and finally. Monsieur, I came to know that he was introducing himself. Ah! You must give me credit for the great acumen! I did not fully comprehend this. Monsieur, until finally he wrote the name upon a slip of paper; then, apparently realizing that he had committed a blunder and betrayed himself, he snatched the paper from my hand,— so,— tore it into bits, and cast it away. It must be here even now."

Together they pounced on the four bits of paper which had been knocking about the floor all night, and patched them together again. It was perfect! W. Mandeville Clarke! Little cries of satisfaction escaped them as the name grew beneath their deft fingers, and when all was done they shook hands mutely, admiringly.

"Then, when he had torn up and cast away this so precious bit of paper," the clerk went on breathlessly, "he seemed not himself, and again he said many strange words. Then he seized the register— so—and wrote upon it another name. "

"What name?" demanded the sleuth keenly.

"See for yourself Monsieur."

He spun the book round on the desk, and M. Remi read therein the large written:

John Smith Passaic, N. J.

FOR a time M. Remi looked, then there came into his beady black eyes a rupercilious light, and finally he permitted a sneering smile to curl the corners of his mouth. "It is a strange thing, Monsieur," he told the little clerk easily, from the depths of his infinite wisdom, "that whenever and wherever an American is arrested or is threatened with arrest he gives his name as John Smith. If there had been any doubt as to this— er— M. Smith's attempt to hide his true identity, the mere fact that he signed the name John Smith would have tended to dissipate that doubt. A clumsy thing to do, Monsieur! He is a tyro, a bungler!"

"Oh, la la— la la la!" the clerk exclaimed. "A child in the hands of so distinguished a man as M. Remi!"

The sleuth permitted the compliment to pass unheeded and produced from the depths of nis cavernous pocket a large notebook. Fascinated, the clerk watched him as he deliberately turned the pages. Then:

"This, M.— er— er— Smith," the detective inquired with deep meaning,— "this M. Smith— he wears the full, square cut beard?"

The eager anticipation of the clerk's face was wiped out as by the brush of a painter— a house painter.

"No, Monsieur!" he exclaimed, and all hope had fled. "I must tell you the truth. He is of the clean shave. "

M. Remi did not seem to be particularly cast down at this chilling bit of information; on the contrary the sneering smile came again to his lips, and there was something akin to pity in the depths of his black eyes. "There are razors in the world, eh, Monsieur?" he queried quietly.

"Out, oui, oui! Magnificent!"

M. Remi took his time about the next question. "His hair is gray? Almost white?"

"His head is like the raven. Monsieur; but," and the little clerk poked the detective in his distinguished ribs, "there are hair dyes, eh. Monsieur?"

M. Remi admitted it with the strange feeling of having lost something. His voice grew stern, accusing. "He is tall?"

"He is tall. Monsieur— so great tall."

"Weighing about one hundred and eighty pounds?"

"Oui, Monsieur."

"Powerful of physique?"

"Of the grand physique."

M. Remi closed the book and replaced it in his cavernous pocket with an air of finality. "That is all, Monsieur," he said simply.

"You will arouse him and take him away with you now?" the clerk queried eagerly.

"I have no orders to attest him, Monsieur." M. Remi explained. "My orders were only to locate him and keep him under close surveillance."

Oh, la la! Here was disappointment indeed. The little clerk's waxen mustache began to droop. "But what has he done. Monsieur?" he demanded excitedly after a moment. "Is he the robber, the murderer? Is it safe to let him remain in the house? You must tell me, Monsieur!"

"He will remain here undisturbed," M. Remi declared positively. "Who he is and what he is I may not tell you."

There were four reasons why M. Remi could not tell. The first was he didn't know, and the other three are of no consequence.

Meanwhile, Mr. John Smith of Passaic, New Jersey, wrapped in the utter innocence of slumber, dreamed lightly of the voice of an angel— an angel from the United States— which came to him vaguely through a babble.

iv

IN the midst of his shaving, Mr. John Smith paused and from the high-up windows of his room looked down meditatively on the sea of mist that veiled Paris. Far away, a snow white island in the murk of morning, glistening spotlessly under the rays of a pale sun, was Sacred Heart; to his left was Eiffel Tower, that thin, spidery structure that thrust its flagpole straight toward the stars. What a fine young shot tower that would make back in Jersey! As the mists began to lift he could trace the serpentine sweep of the River Seine, winding from a point almost at his feet away, away, and disappearing like a silver ribbon in the distance—just like the dear old Passaic River! In front of him, at the far end of a trio of arched bridges, was the vast roof of the Louvre; it reminded him of the roof of the rubber works back home. And the Garden of the Tuileries! It made him almost homesick for another glimpse of First Ward Park.

Homesick! He shook off the shadowy suggestion; for there was work to be done in Paris, tedious work, the work of finding a man named Clarke, W. Mandeville Clarke, and his reward was to be the exquisite delight of pounding Mr. Clarke to a pulp. After which they would sit down calmly and discuss two or three matters of moment to both of them. He had come all the way to Paris to do this, and this he would do! It had never occurred to him that Clarke might be hopelessly lost in the labyrinthine wildernesses of the city, or that he might not be in Paris. He would find him, because it was meet and proper that he should find him, and Mr. Smith was blessed with a firm belief in the eternal justice of things.

He bared his great right arm and, looking down on it complacently, fell to imagining how Clarke would look when be had quite finished with him. The mental picture he conjured up pleased him so he smiled, and smilingly he finished shaving. After which came breakfast. Not a puny little thing of coffee and rolls, but breakfast with a couple of chops and three or four eggs, and innumerable rashers of bacon. The waiter, who spoke eating-English, allowed his eyes to grow round and rounder as Mr. Smith ordered, and he stood by in a sort of trance as Mr. Smith ate. These Americans! What gormands they were! No wonder zey aire ze beeg and ze husky!

THESE preliminaries disposed of, Mr. Smith planted his hat upon his head and started out to get a toothhold upon Paris. It was of no particular moment to him that, as he passed through the office, the new clerk on duty glanced at him suspiciously and greeted him with a servility that was wholly out of keeping with his station. It was of no particular moment that the clerk didn't speak English,—Mr. Smith looked at him once, and knew that,—because, when he had exhausted the hotels where he could make himself understood, he would hire an interpreter and do the others.

It was of no particular moment to him that the cunning black eyes of a loiterer in the lobby swept his rugged face in one comprehensive glance and took particular note of the color of his hair, after which the owner of the eyes leisurely strolled out.

Maison de Treville, Rue Bonaparte! The combination of words had aroused a cameo-cut recollection in his mind, because once, half a dozen years ago, that had been the home in Paris of Miss Edna Clarke, the daughter of the man he sought. It was odd that he should be stopping at the same place, odd; but upon reflection overnight Mr. Smith could find nothing in it, save its oddity. Miss Clarke had lived there for nearly two years with a chaperon while she was completing her education; but there seemed to be no reason why either she or her father should be known at the Maison de Treville now. He had been convinced by the night clerk's manner that Clarke was not living in the hotel, and, anyway, if he found it necessary, he could go into the matter further with the aid of an interpreter.

Edna Clarke! She must be twenty-four or twenty-five years old now, and for no reason he found himself wondering what she might look like. Once upon a time he had seen a little picture of her, one of a group of laughing girls on a terrace at Versailles, and he had wondered how anybody that far away from Passaic could laugh. The picture had lain for a day or so on Clarke's desk; that same desk where Clarke had practised his knavery and— His teeth closed with a snap and there came an unpleasant glare into his straight staring eyes as he strode into the street and turned toward the river. From his cursory view of Paris at his windows it had seemed that all the big buildings were across the river, and where all the big buildings were the big hotels should be, and skulking in one of the big hotels somewhere, under some name, was W. Mandeville Clarke.

SMITH was halfway across the Pont du Carrousel, which so reminded him of the bridge down near the orphan asylum back home, deep in his own thoughts, when he was brought to an abrupt halt by a man who met him face to face, a shrewd eyed individual who planted himself directly in his path.

"What is your name?" the stranger demanded suddenly in English.

Mr. Smith paused and regarded him questioningly for a moment. "Smith— John Smith," he replied at last, curiously. "Why?"

"Where do you live?" The second question came in the same curt, businesslike tone.

"Passaic, New Jersey," replied Mr. Smith. "What's the answer?"

Without another word, with not even a word of thanks, the stranger passed on and was lost in the throng on the bridge. The incident struck Mr. Smith as curious, nothing more, and a minute later, in thoughts of more importance, he had forgotten it.

Then began for him a systematic, wearying round. He didn't know, and it probably wouldn't have disturbed him if he had known, that M. Remi was trailing him tirelessly, accurately, into and out of every hotel he entered. His questions at each place took the same form: "Do you speak English?" In the event of an answer in the affirmative, the conversation prospered, and there came other questions: "Is W. Mandeville Clarke stopping here? Has he been here? Do you expect him? Is there any American or Englishman with a full gray beard and white hair stopping here, anyone about my size? " In the event of a negative answer to the first question, the conversation ended abruptly, and Mr. Smith put the hotel on his blacklist, to be probed later on by an interpreter.

AT the Hotel Continental there came a pleasant break in the wtarv monotony of his search. He put the usual questions to the clerk. Yes, he spoke English, and he spoke it with an intonation that made Mr. Smith's heart go out to him. No, Mr. W. Mandeville Clarke was not there; he had not been there; they didn't expect him. There was no full bearded, white haired American or Englishman stopping in the hotel, no one about Mr. Smith's size. Mr. Smith was turning away.

"From the United States?" the clerk queried affably.

"Passaic, New Jersey," Mr. Smith boasted.

"Waterbury, Connecticut," said the clerk.

The kindred of country brought Passaic and Waterbury hand to hand in a long, hearty clasp, and Mr. Smith didn't understand why, but there seemed to be a slight lump in his throat.

"Funny thing," the clerk went on after a moment. "There was a young woman in here just a moment ago inquiring for Mr. Clarke. She was from the States too, I imagine— a slender girl dressed in black, rather tall."

Mr. Smith studied the clerk's face with questioning, interested eyes. "You don't happen to know what she wanted with him, do you?"

"No, she didn't say. She seemed to be much distressed about something."

"She didn't leave her name, or her card, did she?"

"No." There was a moment's pause. "If you'll let me have your name and address, and Clarke comes along. I'll let you know," the clerk went on obligingly.

"Bully!" Mr. Smith exclaimed heartily. "My name is John Smith. I'll write my address, because I can't pronounce it."

So a slip of paper passed, and with a word of thanks Mr. Smith went his way.

He had hardly vanished through the courtyard into the Rue de Castiglione when M. Remi appeared before the clerk with an eager glitter in his beady black eyes.

"You will give me at once, Monsieur," he commanded, "the slip of paper which the American handed to you just a moment ago."

The clerk needed no introduction to this man; the type was common. He passed over the slip of paper without a word, and M. Remi devoured it with his eyes. It bore the simple words:

John Smith,

Maison de Treville,

Rue Bonaparte.

It was mysterious—most mysterious! M. Remi puzzled over it for a minute or more, then with keen, accusing glance turned to the clerk. "You will inform me, Monsieur," he commanded, "of the exact conversation you had with this— this M. Smith."

The clerk laid the whole matter before him. The while spidery wrinkles grew in M. Remi's brow. At its end M. Remi hastened away, leaving the clerk to imagine strange things of this big countryman of his, things that were not wholly complimentary. Mr.

Smith would have been amazed if he had even an inkling of what Waterbury, Connecticut, was thinking of Passaic, New Jersey.

v

MR. SMITH had just turned into the Place de l'Opera when, for the second time, he was halted by the abrupt appearance before him of a man who blocked his way. Mr. Smith stopped, thrust his hands into his pockets, and looked him over. He was the same type of man, precisely, as the one who had stopped him on the Pont du Carrousel,—who, in a general sort of way, was a twin of M. Remi,—and something told Mr. Smith he was going to ask the same questions.

''What eez your name?" demanded the stranger curtly. Yes, the same question— in worse English.

''What's it to you?" Mr. Smith queried belligerently.

Aha! He was not M. John Smith any more; he was M. Watts Ittooyu! It must be a Japanese name! Ze huge Americaine must take ze police of la belle France for ze grand stupid! Oho!

"Where do you leeve?" came the question.

"At the corner of the United States and two o'clock," Mr. Smith declared hotly. "Now, look here, son, I don't know why you people in Paris stop a fellow and ask his name; but it's none of your business, and the next one who does it will get a good swift poke in the jaw."

Mr. Smith stalked into the lobby of the Grand Hotel with a grim expression on his face, which softened instantly into mild interest as he came face to face with a tall, slender young woman gowned in black and heavily veiled, coming out. She started a little at sight of him, hesitated a scant instant,—he thought she was going to speak,— then passed on hurriedly. There was something vaguely familiar in the trim figure, the walk, the tilt of the head, and he paused to look after her a moment. Whatever he thought of her was lost in the throes of his verbal wrestlings with a clerk who boasted that he spoke English and understood United States.

THE first day's search ended fruitlessly for Mr. Smith, but rich beyond the most optimistic dreams to the sleuths of Paris who were seeking W. Mandeville Clarke. M. Remi listened to the reports of the men who were assisting him, and his mental convolutions were weird in the extreme. He sent them away and sat down to try to adjust all the odd facts in his possession.

John Smith, alias Watts Ittooyu, was W. Mandevilie Clarke. He was big enough, the rugged lines on his face made him look old enough, he kept clean shaven with the most scrupulous care, and his dingy black hair bore every indication of having been newly dyed— badly dyed. But why should W. Mandevilie Clarke set himself to search the hotels of Paris for W. Mandevilie Clarke? Why, when confronted the second time by one of M. Remi's assistants, did he give that strange name, Watts Ittooyu? And that strange address— the comer of the United States and two o'clock? Who was the mysterious veiled woman in black who was also searching for M. Clarke? Was she a confederate? There was some deep laid plot somewhere, and seeking it the French sleuth acquired a headache, which he treated with many oversweetened Martinis. Result, more headache!

ON the second day Mr. Smith planned to take the Arc de Triomphe as a center and revolve around it. At his first point of inquiry, the Hotel Carleton in the Champs Elysées, he encountered for the second time the veiled woman in black. She was standing at the desk with her back toward him as he entered, talking in French with the clerk in charge. She finished and started away.

"Do you speak English?" Mr. Smith began monotonously.

"Yes, Monsieur, I speak him quite well," replied the clerk.

"Do you happen to have with you a man known as W. Mandevilie Clarke?"

The clerk glanced involuntarily at the veiled woman, who turned quickly, inquiringly. At sight of Mr. Smith she became rigid where she stood, listening, listening!

"No, Monsieur. He is not here."

"Has he been here? Do you expect him?"

"He is not here. We do not expect him."

"There's no American or Englishman with a full beard and white hair here? No man about my size?"

Again the clerk glanced at the young woman, who, with fingers writhing within themselves, stood motionless half a dozen feet away.

"No, Monsieur," replied the clerk at last. "We have them wider and shorter, and longer and thinner; but none of your size."

Following the clerk's glance, Mr. Smith turned and recognized the veiled, woman with a sort of start. Her eyes met his squarely for a fraction of a second; then she turned and went out. A minute later he went out in the same direction. She was standing beside a taxicab at the curb waiting. He knew she would be. She faced him flatly, almost defiantly.

"I am not mistaken?" she asked in a tone so low he could just hear her. "This is Mr. Smith?"

"Yes, ma'am." Mr. Smith thought at first he knew the voice, knew it as one he had heard before; but there was some note in it that made it seem strange. He wondered if she was going to ask where he lived.

"You don't— don't happen to know who I am?" she went on, apparently with an effort.

"No, ma'am."

She sighed a little; it might have been relief. "You are looking for Mr. Clarke, I believe?" There was a tense, eager note in the girl's question, a suggestion of fear. Her face was perfectly pallid behind the kindly veil, and her small fingers gripped her palms mercilessly.

"Yes, ma'am," Mr. Smith replied frankly. "You don't happen to know where he is, do you?"

"May I ask— pardon me if mv question seems impertinent— may I ask why you are looking for Mr. Clarke?"

Mr. Smith thoughtfully stroked his chin. "It's a little personal matter, ma'am," and his voice hardened, "a little matter between us. If it's just the same to you, I'd rather not tell you."

The girl caught her breath sharply, and when she spoke again there was abject terror in her manner. "I should not have asked, of course," she apologized quickly, falteringly. "You— you come from the United States to find Mr. Clarke?"

"Passaic, New Jersey; yes, ma'am."

"And when you find him?"

Mr. Smith's straight staring eyes grew steely, and there was a glint of danger in them; his powerful hands worked spasmodically, his white teeth were locked together. "When I find him!" he repeated grimly. Then quietly, "I'd rather not tell you, ma'am."

For an instant she stood staring at him, and twice she made as if to speak; then suddenly, silently, she turned and entered the taxicab. The car jerked and went speeding away up the Champs Elysées. For a long time Mr. Smith stood gazing after it blankly, wonderingly.

vi

SOME one has said that the corner table of the Café de la Paix, that table on the sidewalk, precisely at the intersection of the Boulevard des Capucines with the Place de I'Opéra, is the exact center of the earth. When he dropped into a chair at that particular spot. Mr. John Smith didn't happen to know that he occupied so important a geographical position: he only knew that this famous outdoor place, with its thin-legged tables and unsubstantial chairs, was something like Terry Maloney's Winter Garden back in Passaic, and that was enough. He was aweary of limb, battered by disappointment, and there was creeping over him resistlessly that longing for home which at sometime is the heritage of every man who travels.

For just a week Mr. John Smith had been tramping up and down Paris, cut off as effectively from home and countrymen as if he was in a dungeon, asking questions, always the same questions, listening to the meaningless, volatile babblings about him, and pondering moodily upon the hundreds of unused handshakes in Main-ave. back home. Not once had he met an American, save the clerk in the Hotel Continental. He had not seen the mysterious veiled woman again. There came a time at last when he felt he couldn't stand it any longer, and he dropped into the Continental to shake hands with Waterbury. Connecticut. But some change had come there. The clerk regarded him with frigid eyes, in which lay a shadow of suspicion.

"You haven't come across Clarke yet?" Mr. Smith inquired.

"Don't know a thing about him," replied the clerk tersely. That was all.

And once, in his great loneliness, he had paused to watch a child at play in the Garden of the Tuileries, a rosy cheeked little chap who was whipping a top.

And he had spoken to the child. The answer was an incomprehensible jumble of sounds— just sounds.

Even the children in Paris spoke French! He had moved on wearily, and as he went a shrewd-faced man with beady black eyes— M. Remi had come up and inquired of the child what the strange American had said and what had been the answer.

By noon of the seventh day Mr. Smith had exhausted those hotels where he could make himself understood, and now he had dropped down into a seat in the Café de la Paix to plan a continuance of his search, with the aid of an interpreter. Disappointment had been added to disappointment as he had gone on with not one clue; but the bulldog determination was in no way dulled, his purpose had not wavered. It had never occurred to him to give in— to quit. It never would occur to him while W. Mandeville Clarke remained to be found.

ACROSS the Place de I'Opéra from the Café de la Paix is a large sign in bold United States sort of letters, the sign of a great Chicago newspaper. Mr. Smith discovered it now for the first time, and the severe lines in his rugged face softened a little. It looked so homy and comfortable and United Statesy that it made him feel hungry all over, a hunger that took the form of an insane desire to see a United States flag, and to shake a United States hand, and to eat a United States pie—all of it, from upper crust to indigestion. Pie! Paris wouldn't be so bad if there was pie to be had. Chestnut fed Jersey pork and pumpkin pie! And perhaps just a smack of applejack, real, undiluted Jersey lightning!

He wondered if it was to be had.

A waiter came and inquired what Monsieur would be so pleased as to have, inquired in the lisping English that nearly every waiter in Paris speaks. How could he be so honored as to serve Monsieur?

"Say, son," queried Mr. Smith. "I wonder if by any chance you know what applejack is? Jersey lightning?"

"Applejack?" the waiter repeated painfully. "Jairsey lightning?"

"Applejack— it's a drink." Mr. Smith elucidated. "If you can find me a small glass of it—"

"Apple?" the waiter pondered. " Zat ees ze pointin'. Jack— zat ees ze Jacques in French, and Jacques ees ze James in English. Did it ? Zerefore vat you want ees ze apple of ze James to drink? Ees it not so?"

Mr. Smith looked at him in amazement. "Oh, rats! If it's that much trouble, bring me beer," he directed.

Perched there in the center of the world, Mr. Smith meditated upon many things over his dejeuner, — dinner back in Passaic, regaling his drooping soul ever and anon by another glance at that wonderful sign across the way, the sign of a Chicago newspaper. He had never been to Chicago; but he loved it now.

He would go over to that office when he had finished. and perhaps some one there an American, oh, joy!— could give him some information as to where he might get an interpreter.

And, as he considered it all with rising spirits, there came to him indistinctly from a table a dozen feet away a few words in English— good United States English. The sound of that voice brought a quick, tense expression to his face and a spasmodic gripping movement to his hands. He knew it. knew it despite a certain whining quaver that had never been there before. He brushed the crumbs from his knees, folded his napkin carefully. a hi Passaic, paid the waiter, and rose. He had found Clarke!

He turned in the direction whence the voice had come, and. as yet unnoticed himself, stared, stared with frank surprise in his face. It was Clarke, all right— he knew the commanding, gleaming eyes of him— but a different Clarke, a Clarke minus the square cut beard he had always worn, a Clarke whose head had been stripped of its glory of white hair, a Clarke who had shrunk from the robust, ruddy man he had known to a mere skeleton of himself, a Clarke with thin, yellow face and colorless lips; but Clarke it was— the man he had been seeking!

Mr. Smith strode straight toward him through the web of spidery tables and chairs, heedless of all else in the world, heedless even of the sudden appearance at his side of a strange man who said something to him in English. The slight commotion attracted Clarke's attention, and there, while still half a dozen feet separated them, the eyes of the two men met. Clarke's thin face went white beneath its sallowness and. leaning heavily on the table in front of him. he struggled to rise. It was an effort for him. a desperate effort; but he came to his feet at last and bis burning gaze fastened itself upon Mr. Smith.

Some one laid hands on Mr. Smith's arm. He shook them off and took another step forward. Then, and not until then, he became conscious of the fact that Clarke was not alone. There was a young woman with him, a girl he knew, the girl who had directed his cab to the Maison de Treville on his first day in Paris, a girl in poise and in figure and in carriage strangely like the mysterious veiled woman in black. There was abject terror in her blue, wide opened eyes, a blanching of the rosy face, an involuntary movement of appeal in the slim, white hands appeal to him!

"Keep your seat. Edna." Clarke commanded in the thin, whining voice of a man who is ill, desperately ill. "There will be no scene."

For a second time Mr. Smith attempted to shake off the restraining grip on his right arm; but this time the encircling fingers closed like steel, and again he was conscious of some one mumbling in his ear— something that seemed to lx- of no consequence in the blinding anger that suddenly possessed him. He wanted to sink his fingers into the throat of this man. he wanted to smash that sickly yellow face, he wanted to scream the bitter rage that gripped his heart. And yet, looking into the troubled, pleading blue eyes of this girl, eyes that commanded with unspoken ehxjuence, he stood silent, rigid.

Finally, after a great while, it seemed, reason came back to him, and vaguely he made out something that was being said in his ear:

"M. Clarke, you are my prisoner!"

CLARKE! Yet it was to him. John Smith, that the words were addressed! He turned to face the man who had spoken, the man who clung to him now with a grip of iron. It was the inquisitive stranger who hail asked his name that day on the Pont du Carrousel.

"Come along with the quietness, Monsieur!"

"What for? Mr. Smith demanded curiously.

"By order of the Prefect of Police."

"But my name isn't Clarke," Mr. Smith protested. "My name is—"

"W. Mandeville Clarke," interrupted his captor, "alias John Smith, alias Watts Ittooyu. You are my prisoner. You will come along with the great quietness."

Mr. Smith riveted his gaze upon the face of the real Clarke, and his mind, usually slow moving, whirled with the Hood of things to he considered. He wasn t Clarke, of course, but if he exposed the real Clarke, and the real Clarke should be  taken prisoner, it would bring chaos. Clarke must remain free, even at the temporary cost of his own freedom! It would he easy, once Clarke had opportunity to escape, to prove himself to he the John Smith he claimed to be,  and he would he released. Then would come his reckoning!

His eyes shifted for an instant to the face of the girl, and some strange, subtle message passed between them. She had not spoken; yet she too seemed to understand, and the pleading, wistful eyes commanded him to do the right thing which happened to he at the moment submission to arrest!

"Oh, very well. Cap." Mr. Smith remarked at last, quietly, slowly, "as long as you know I'm Clarke, I don't suppose it will do any good to deny it. You fly cops in Paris are wonders, aren't you?"

vii

WITH one of his wasted hands clasped in the cool, caressing fingers of his daughter, and with her plump, rosy cheek pressed tenderly against his own. withered and yellowed by a long, dragging siege of typhoid. W. Mandeville Clarke slept. It was a sleep of utter exhaustion, an exhaustion following closely upon the maelstrom of speculation and apprehension aroused by that unexpected encounter with Mr. John Smith in the Cafe de la Paix. Smith, of all men! What was he doing in Paris, so far away from his wicketed window? Why had he been arrested? And why had he submitted to arrest under the name of Clarke, with hardly a protest?

There was only one answer, of course, and that answered only part of the question: The disappearance of the United States bonds from the bank vault had been discovered. An order had been issued for his, Clarke's, arrest on a charge of having made way with those bonds. That order had been turned over to the police of Paris for execution, and they had blunderer!. But how had they blundered? How was it possible to mistake Smith for Clarke? And why had Smith not delivered over to the arresting officer the real W. Mandeville Clarke, who was there under his very hands? It couldn't have been that Smith hadn't recognized him; the blazing, straight staring eyes left no room for doubt on that score. Then why— why?

Pondering these things, aghast at the hideous possibilities that paraded before his distorter! vision in garish disorder, certain of nothing and fearful of all, Clarke had been lulled into uneasy slumber by the softly musical voice of his daughter, who talked of all things in the world save the strange meeting in the Café de la Paix.

Mr. Smith had been led away a submissive prisoner, and immediately he had gone Edna had hurried her father into a taxicab and they had been driven here— here to this shabby little apartment in the Rue St. Honore where she had found him. where he had been quartered for weeks, and where by force of indomitable will andsplendid physique he had conquered his illness.

FOR an hour or more after he had dropped asleep the girl sat beside him. motionless, vigilant, sensitive to his least movement, her clear blue eyes clouded by terror of some incomprehensible danger which threatened to overwhelm them. She had asked no questions; but a thousand were hammering insistently for answer. Why was her father, W. Mandeville Clarke, president of a bank and a financial power at home, skulking here in a pitiful little apartment under the name of Charles Roebling? Had there been some crime? She shuddered at the thought. If there had been no crime, why the necessity of this concealment? And who was this huge, hulking American, this so called John Smith, who, knowing Clarke, had submitted to arrest with scarcely a word of defense?

Her father— perhaps he was a thief! He had left home suddenly with the bare, bald statement that he was going to Paris, and once there he had utterly disappeared. Weeks and weeks had passed; then, tormented by an unnamed fear of some ghastly thing like this, she had come to find him. She had found him through a clue furnished by a friend of the family, found him just recovering from typhoid fever. If her father was a thief, then John Smith— John Smith— he was probably a detective! That was the only inference she had been able to draw from his answers to her questions that day in the Champs Elysées. But. on the other hand, if he was a detective, why had he permitted himself to be arrested as W. Mandeville Clarke?

After awhile she detached her slim fingers from her father's feeble grip and rose noiselessly. For a minute or more she stood staring down on the emaciated frame of this man who was so much to her. who was so dependent upon her now in his helplessness, who was so near to her and yet so isolated by the pall of mystery which seemed impenetrable. Then suddenly there came a blinding, blurring rush of tears and she crept silently from the room.

The door squeaked faintly as she closed it; but, A slight as it was. the noise aroused Clarke. His feverish eyes opened wide and he sat up straight in bed. The bonds! He had dreamed of them, and fear for their safety had been born in that dream.—a strange,vivid vision of a desperate struggle with some straight staring, rugged faced, hulking man, some man who seemed to be—to be John Smith! In the dream he had lost the bonds! For a long time he sat listening, listening, then started to rise from the bed. It was an etlort. Illness had sapped his strength, he was weak as a child, but the will of him came to his rescue, that merciless, all compelling will against which no man or thing had ever stood.

Made giddy by the effort, with the world swimming about him hazily, he rested for a minute beside the bed. steadying himself by the support it gave; then, his eyes aglitter, his heart pounding, he went staggering. reeling, across the room. From a shelf high up in the rickety wardrobe he took down a little leather bag and opened it with fumbling fingers. Inside, folded separately, and placed one upon another, were many papers, bound into a package by a rubber band; he thrust his fingers into the bag. The papers crackled at his touch and he laughed senseessly. They were safe!

With trembling hands he slid one of the sheets out and opened it. It was a United States bond, printed in the golden yellow that one instinctively associates with things of great value. On its face it bore the figures $10,000. There were one hundred and fifty of those bonds in the bag one million five hundred thousand dollars! Here was not his fortune, but the means to a fortune that was to become millions and millions under his deft manipulations! Again he laughed, a mirth that was cracked, hollow.

After awhile he folded the bond, slipped it back under the rubber band, locked the little bag again, and stood swaying in the center of the room as if seeking a place to hide it. For weeks, during all the weary illness when he had lain unconscious, helpless, the little bag had remained safe and undisturbed. But now he had dreamed, and fear had been born in that dream. The bag must be hidden in some better, safer place safe from Smith, safe from chance discovery by his daughter!

An idea came! He could place the bag beside him, under the covers! There it would always be at hand, and with a revolver under his pillow—

IT was an hour later, perhaps, that the door opened with the slight squeak that had aroused him, and his daughter entered softly. The mist of tears was gone now, the lingering, doubtful fear had passed from the blue eyes, and the scarlet lips were smiling bravely.

"Edna," he said, and for a moment there was a return to the terse, masterful tone she had always known, "does it happen von have seen any account in the Paris edition of The Herald of trouble in one of the banks back home? An embezzlement, perhaps?"

"No. Daddy. Why?"

So, whether or not there had been an order sent to the Paris police for his arrest, nothing had come out back home! There was yet a chance, in spite of Smith! A chance? No, an absolute certainty! Clarke closed his eyes and lay back smiling.

viii

DUSK had drawn a veil over Paris when Clarke awoke, and the only thing he was conscious of for a time, in the darkness of the shabby little room, was a vague white splotch, elusively outlined against the shadows. With an effort he focused it with his eyes, and after a long, long time he came to know it was the face of his daughter.

"Edna!" he said feebly.

"You are awake, father?" and a white hand, chilling as ice, rested for a moment on his brow. "Do you feel better? "

"I'm all right, Girly," he assured her. "I was a little upset, that's all."

There was silence. He moved slightly, and something under the covers bumped against his side. One hand, exploring, came in contact with the little leather bag. The bonds! He smiled. They were safe yet! Smith hadn't been able to get them!

"I'm quite well." he continued, and there was a steadier note in the quavering voice. "In another week I'll be good as new. It takes more than a little typhoid to knock out your daddy, girly."

Edna didn't stir. After one quick glance she didn't even look at him. Instead she sat motionless, with pallid face, staring out the mottled window for a minute or more. The clear blue eyes had become somber and tense in the rigidity of their gaze.

"A gentleman called to see you while you were asleep, she said irrelevantly at last. "I told him, of course, that he couldn't see you; that you were ill."

"Who was he?" Clarke asked quickly.

"He said he was the Marquis d'Aubigny," the girl told him with deadly listlessness in her tone, "and he inquired for Mr. Charles Roebling."

"But I should have seen him— I must see him!" Clarke blazed with a note of excitement in his voice. "You shouldn't have sent him awav! You should have—"

"He will return this evening; he said he would,"  the girl interrupted. Then, after a pause, "Father, why Charles Roebling instead of Clarke?"

"For reasons you wouldn't understand— business reasons." he explained tersely. "Did he set an hour?"

"Eight o'clock," she replied. "And why this dreadful little place instead of one of the hotels? We have always stopped at a hotel before, and—"

"Girly, you are asking about things now that I couldn't explain— to you. Some day you'll know; until then you wouldn't understand."

"And why that strange scene at the Cafe de la Paix?" Edna rushed on with sudden, dogged violence. "Why should Mr. Smith, or whatever his name is, be arrested under the name of Clarke— under your name? He seemed to know you. and you knew him. Why didn't one of you explain that there had been a mistake? And why should W. Mandeville Clarke— you— be arrested at all?"

She stopped with an odd, cold feeling of numbness and. leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, stared moodily at the floor. The scarlet had gone from her lips; her teeth were clenched desperately.

"Edna, don't disturb yourself with things you don't understand." Clarke reproved tartly. "Don't ask silly questions."

"I must know what it all means. Daddy— I must know!" The tenacity of purpose that characterized the father was born anew in the daughter. "I suppose Mr. Smith is linked up somewhere now under your name. How long is he to stay there? What has he done? What have you done?"

This was a new mood in his daughter. Clarke stared at her in sheer amazement, mingled with uneasiness. She had missed nothing of the meeting at the cafe! When he spoke again it was in the old voice of command she knew, the merciless, abrupt, triumphant business tone.

"If Smith remains locked up for a week, it means a fortune for me— a fortune of millions." he said. " If by any ehanee he is released and finds me the seeond time, it means— it means ruin, absolute ruin!"

"But why?" the girl insisted.

lb- didn't answer the question, and for some reason she didn't press it. Instead:

"You are not a rich man. are you. Daddy?" she asked curiously. "I mean rich in the sense of the great rich men of New York?"

"I'm a pauper, compared to the Wall Street crowd." Clarke replied steadily. "I  am worth perhaps three hundred thousand  dollars, perhaps less. However, if Smith stays in jail for a week, just a week. I'll be worth millions! Millions, girly! Do you understand?"

There was some inarticulate noise in the girl's throat, a sort of gasp, and -he rose. Her slim hands closed tightly behind her back; she Stood rigid.

"I shall not ask you. Daddy, why it is to your advantage for Mr. Smith to remain in jail: nor shall I ask you why he should have submitted to arrest under your name. But there is one thing I will ask. and I have a right to an answer! Why should anyone bv your name be arrested? What have you done?"

Clarke picked nervously at the sheets with one hand, while the other gripped the little leather bag. "There's nothing I can say to that question now," he remarked slowly.

"I was afraid you wouldn't answer it. Will you answer this: Has there been any act of dishonesty?"

The words came hollowly, with an effort.

Clarke stared at her fora long time. Finally, "It is useless to continue such a conversation. I will see the Marquis d'Aubigny when he calls."

"Is it possible for a man in your position, a banker, to raise a large sum of money, a very large sum of money, or to have it intrusted to him for— well, say, for investment ?"

"Why, girly, that is my business."

His fingers dosed more tightly on the little leather bag as his eves searched her face for the meaning of that singular question. And as he looked she seemed to be overcome suddenly by a violent revulsion of feeling and he found her on her knees besids the bed, her wet face buried in the sheets, sobbing.

"Forgive me. Daddy!" she pleaded. "Forgive me! It's all so strange, so unreal! I can't understand. I don't suppose I ever shall. I think I am not— not quite myself."

Clarke rested his hand on her radiant hair until the storm of sobs had passed and fiercely fought back some powerful emotion that halted his words. "Do you know what you need more than anything else in the world?" he queried gently at last, and this was the father speaking. She looked up expectantly,

"You need a good cry. Run along now, and don't disturb yourself about horrid things you don't understand."

THAT night Marquis d'Aubigny, a little man of indeterminate age. immaculate, foppish even in dress, with that singularly loathsome expression of the eyes that one grows accustomed to seeing in the cafes of the Champs Elyseés, called and remained with Clarke for an hour. Edna, in person, admitted him to the poor little apartment, and under his stare flushed crimson with intangible anger, a helpless rebellion against the thing she saw there. With hot cheeks she turned away into the little cubbyhole of a room adjoining that in which her father lay and flung herself across the bed.

It was no fault of hers that she heard the conversation in that room, separated from that of her father by only a flimsy door which would not close perfectly; but when the Marquis had gone she stood for a time staring after him, then entered the'room where her father lay. He was sitting straight up in bed in the act of opening the little leather bag. He tried to conceal it.

"What do you want?" he demanded harshly.

She stood silent an instant, swaying a little. "Nothing, Daddy," she said falteringly. "I don't want anything. I don't think I am I am quite well."

As he glared she stretched out her hands to him imploringly, her lips moved silently, and she fell prone.

ix

MEANWHILE, Mr. John Smith was having troubles of his own, and rather enjoving them. He was sitting in a small office of the prefecture of police— police headquarters in Passaic—on the Ile de la Cite, facing M. Baudet, a grim visaged man of middle age who perfumed his whiskers and smoked vile cigarettes. Mr. Smith wondered if he perfumed his whiskers to kill the odor of the cigarettes, or if he smoked the cigarettes to kill the odor of his whiskers. M. Remi was there, along with two or three other French sleuths, who glowered at Mr. Smith individually and collectively and babbled incomprehensible asides. Mr. Smith stood it for a long lime: then, to M. Baudet, who seemed to be the chief:

"Well, Cap, you got me," he remarked pleasantly. "Now would you mind telling me what it's all about?"

Evidently this was what they had been waiting for, the prisoner to break the silence. M. Baudet stabbed him with a glance of his piercing eyes and remained silent. It was a highly effective method of his own, this silence, to reduce a man to fear and awe in the beginning. It sapped his courage and left him weak and flabby.

"If you're going to ask any questions, begin," Mr. Smith requested.

"I shall ask the questions, Monsieur, at the proper time." M. Baudet's tone was cold, incisive, steely.

"And all I have to do is to answer 'em?"

"That is all, Monsieur."

"Well, son, we'd better understand each other in the beginning," Mr. Smith remarked easily. " If you don't answer some of my questions right now. I don't answer any of yours. In other words, it you hold me here without telling me why, I'll get a man down here from the American Embassy and let out a scream they'll hear all the way to Washington. In the first place, I want to know why I was pinched."

There was a note of calm assurance in Mr. Smith's voice, utter composure in the powerful hand which lay idly on the arm of his chair. His straight staring eyes were fixed squarely upon those of M. Baudet.

"Understand me, I'm not going to start any roughhouse or anything; but you've got to tell me why I'm here," he concluded.

"You shall answer my questions, Monsieur!" A slender, manicured hand, delicate as a woman's, tugged complacently at the perfumed beard; there was a merciless glitter in the eyes above it. "You are W. Mandeville Clarke!"

"Well, suppose I am?" queried Mr. Smith. "What has he done? Is there an order for his arrest from the United States?"

"Ah! You do not deny it! So you are Mandeville Clarke, alias John Smith, alias Watts Ittooyu!"

"I'm not denying anything." Mr. Smith returned placidly. "If I'm Clarke, what have I done? Have I murdered someone, or wrecked a train, or burned a barn, or robbed a safe?"

"You admit that you are Clarke?"

"I'm not denying it, am I? I want to know why I'm here. What's Clarke done?"

It was most disconcerting, really, quite unprisoner like! M. Baudet had anticipated denial. This man denied nothing—merely wanted to know. That precipitated an embarrassing situation. Why had Clarke been arrested? Why was he being held?

"Your arrest was necessary, Monsieur."

And he hoped Mr. Smith would read, some deep, underlying threat in the words.

"Why?" Mr. Smith bellowed at him suddenly, belligerently. "Who ordered it?

Have I committed a crime in Paris ? If not, then the order for an arrest came from the United States. Who ordered it?"

M. Baudet blinked a little, and a long silence tell. These burly Americans! What monstrous voices they had, to be sure! And how evil they could look about the eyes! Alter a little M. Baudet glanced at M. Remi blankly.

"Tell it to me now: I want to know," Mr. Smith insisted in a voice as if he was rooting for the home team. "You can't hold me here forever without telling me why, and if you don't tell me you've got to tell the American Ambassador!"

There was a little nervous twitch in M. Baudet's delicate hand as lie tugged at the perfumed whiskers again. Here was a situation unprecedented, an American, a pig of an American, without hope or honor in his soul, bawling at him. M. Baudet, as if he was a stevedore! When he spoke his own vo! was like velvet.

"We knew you to be M. Clarke almost from the first." He said, and as he went on the velvety purr merged into frigid dramatics. "For instance, in introducing yourself at the Maison de Treville, you wrote your name, W. Mandeville Clarke, on a slip of paper: then, realizing your error, destroyed it. Here are those hits of paper, Monsieur."

He produced them. Mr. Smith stared.

"When one of my men met you on the Pont du Carrousel the following morning and asked your name, you hesitated before you answered. The assumed name of John Smith did not spring into your mind as readily as would have your own. It is an infallible test! Again, when another of my men accosted you in the Place de l' Opera and asked the same questions, you gave a different name. In other words, Monsieur, when taken unawares you forgot the name you had assumed, and, realising only the necessity of giving some name other than your own, you gave the name Watts Ittooyu, and your a duress as the corner of the United States and two o'clock. I have the direct information, Monsieur, that there is no such address; therefore you are Clarke!"

THERE it was, all of it. as clear as mud! Mr. Smith didn't smile, because the one question to which he had been seeking an answer was not answered. He returned to it unwaveringly.

"Was there an order from the United Staties to arrest Clarke?"

"Well, Monsieur, the fact is—" and M. Baudet hesitated a little, "the fact is our instructions from the United States were not so complete as we should have wished: so—"

"Was there an order from the United States to arrest Clarke?"

"Well, there was no direct order; but—"

Mr. Smith drew a long breath, a very long breath. "But you did have a request from some one, possibly a private detective agency, to keep a lookout for Clarke?" he continued. "And a description ot Clarke?"

"That is true. Monsieur: but you must understand—"

"Now." Mr. Smith interrupted abruptly, "you yourself say you had no order to arrest Clarke. Your men had evidently been watching me prettv closely since I have been in Paris. Have I committed am crime then?"

"You went on and on endlessly in the farce of searching for yourself. Monsieur. We knew you were Clarke, and it was necessary to bring the matter to a conclusion. So you were arrested. I shall notify the agency in New York immediately, and—"

"No charge against me in the United States, not even a charge against me in Paris, and still you pinched me!"

M. Remi leaned forward suddenly and mysteriously whispered into the pearl-like ear of his chief, whereupon a glad smile split the perfumed whiskers, and the piercing eyes grew cunning.

"If you are thinking you are to be freed immediately. Monsieur, you are mistaken." M. Baudet remarked suavely. "There is a charge against you in Paris, and even your American Ambassador cannot aid you until that charge is disposed of. That is that you have violated our laws by living here under an assumed name and in disguise!"

THEN Mr. Smith smiled. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his sturdy American legs, and continued to smile. Away back of that smile was the consciousness that Clarke's perfidy had not been discovered in the bank; that it had not been reported to the police; that the supposed package of United States bonds in the vault was still unbroken; and that so long as those things were true, he, Mr. John Smith, was not only in no danger himself, but was at liberty to pursue the task he had set himself, of finding and returning those bonds. If their loss was discovered, it meant the collapse of the bank, inevitably.

"Well, Cap," and Mr. Smith was purring like a tickled kitten. "I'll just bet you ten dollars to the hole in a pretzel that I am not in Paris under an assumed name, nor am I disguised! Sad as it may seem, this is my own face."

"Not disguised!" exclaimed M. Baudet. "Not under an assumed name! But you are M. Clarke!"

"Who told you so?"

"You did. Monsieur."

"Wrong, Cap. I merely didn't say I wasn't Clarke. You must have a pretty accurate description of Clarke. He's a man about my size?"

"Just your size. Monsieur."

"With gray hair?"

"You have dyed it. Monsieur. It has that dingy look of dyed hair."

"Thanks! If you know of anything that will take the dye off. get busy. Your description probably said too that Mr. Clarke has a full, square cut beard?"

"A razor, Monsieur." M. Baudet smiled.

"But your description did say a gray beard? "

"Yes, gray, almost white."

"Well, take it from me. I'm not Clarke. All you've got to do to convince yourself is to sit right still then for the next ten hours and watch my whiskers grow. They'll come out black."

There was silence, dead silence, a silence fraught with tragedy. After a long time M. Baudet turned upon M. Remi with a sinister glare in his eye.

"If that is true, M. Remi," he said ineasuredly, "it is evident that you have made the mistake."

M. Remi bowed his head in shame and sorrow; then another idea came. He spoke aside to his chief, who in turn addressed Mr. Smith.

"Your name is John Smith, then?"

"John Smith, of Passaic, New Jersey."

"You have been looking for M. Clarke, too. Who are you? Why have you been searching?"

"Because I wanted to find him," replied Mr. Smith. "Now you fly cops in Paris are pretty nifty, Cap. Can't you imagine why I came all the way from the United States to find Clarke, the same man you are after? doesn't it suggest anything to you?"

Gradually a light of understanding grew in M. Baudet's eyes, and for a second time the perfumed whiskers parted in a smile. "Perhaps," it came in a thrilling whisper, "perhaps you too are a detective!"

"Ah!" It was most noncommittal. Mr. Smith rose and stretched his long legs. "There is the native shrewdness of France, Monsieur!"

They shook hands.

Late that night Mr. Smith returned to his  room in the Maison de Treville with an odd smile of satisfaction on his face.

ON the following afternoon five men met with W. Mandeville Clarke in the shabby little apartment in the Rue St. Honore. and important business papers, involving millions, were signed. By the terms of the deal Clarke was temporarily to hypothecate United States funds valued at one and a half million dollars. Smiling triumphantly, he opened the little leather bag.

It was empty!

x

FOR the major part of the day and all the evening following the mysterious disappearance of one million five hundred thousand dollars' worth of United States bonds from the shabby little room in the Rue St. Honore. Mr. John Smith hovered about the lobby of the Maison de Treville like an uneasy bill collector. He had been expecting something, he didn't know what. A letter? Perhaps. A telegram? Maybe. A call in person? Not at all unlikely. Whatever form it might take, it was something coming a from the void, an illuminating, star-like light to lead him through the maze. He was perfectly convinced of it, albeit the conviction was based upon nothing more substantial than a well developed Passaic hunch.

Shortly after nine o'clock he strolled around the corner into the Rue de Seine to invest fifty centimes of hard earned American cash in a bad cigar, all cigars being bad in Paris. As he re-entered the lobby, the night clerk, that astute young man with the smile and the delicately waxed mustache,ingratiating picked up a letter and held it aloft.

"Billet pneumatique, Monsieur," he announced.

"Who?" asked Mr. Smith.

"Billet pneumatique."

"You can search me, son; I don't know him."

The clerk shrugged his shoulders hopelessly, walked round the desk, and placed the letter in Mr. Smith's hand. Mr. Smith glanced at the superscription.

"Oh. For me. I thought you said it was for Billy somebody."

The handwriting was a woman's. Now that it had had come, Mr. Smith knew that it was precisely what he had been expecting.

Of course it was from a woman! He had known all along that it would be! He dropped into a settle a corner and opened the

It was like this:

To-night at 10 30 taxicab will pick you up at the north side of obelisk in Place de la Concorde. Matter of greatest importance to you.

There was no signature. Mr. Smith had expected none.  He glanced at his watch— it was nine-twenty-seven— after which he sat for a long time with utter blankness in his straight staring eyes. His meditations were not unpleasant, if one might judge from a certain softness about his mouth, almost a smile. Perhaps he was dreaming of Passaic.

Whatever it was, he was brought back to cold, sordid earth by the approach of a stranger who had entered, a small man of indeterminate age, immaculate, even foppish, in dress, with a pair of evil eyes in the head of him.

"Pardon me," said the stranger in English, "this is M. John Smith?"

"Of Passaic, New Jersey. Yes, sir."

"Permit me to introduce myself. Monsieur. I am the Marquis d'Aubigny."

He bowed low and his card. Mr. Smith presented read the name and bowed lower. There was a certain uneasy air of surprise in his manner. To his broad, democratic mind, Kings and Queens and Dukes and Marquises were persons who walked the face of the earth with exalted crowns on their heads. This chap had on a silk hat.

"It is the great pleasure. Monsieur, to meet you."

"Same to you, sir." Mr. Smith was holding up one foot awkwardly with a crushing sense of having failed in the formalities. "Have a seat, Mr… er— er— er— Sit down."

M. le Marquis disposed himself gracefully, on the settle. He reminded Mr. Smith, languidly, of some one, strangely. Suddenly he knew who it was. It was Richard Mansfield as Baron Chevrial. That was it, that disgusting, loathesome, marvelous creation of an actor's art! Verily, here was Bill Roue in person; so, to Mr. Smith's unembroidered Passaic mind. Mr. Smith sat down gingerly.

"I have come to you on a little matter of business. Monsieur," the Marquis said slowly, impressively. I come from M. Clarke."

"Oh!" Mr. Smith stared at him for an instant, then rose and paced the length of the lobby twice with his fingers gripped behind him. When he paused in front of the Marquis, his eyes had grown steely, his powerful jaws were set. "What business?" he demanded abruptly.

Marquis d'Aubigny permitted his wicked little eyes to wander about the lobby. There was no one in sight except the night clerk.

"He doesn't speak English," said Mr. Smith shortly. "Go on!"

"It is not for us, Monsieur, to ask you how you got possession of the bonds, or to go into trivial details to show how we came to know that you have them. Neither is it necessary to touch upon your personal relations with M. Clarke. It is enough to say that you have misunderstood him. He is an honest man, as you are. A vast business deal has been interrupted by your unexpected interference. It is a deal that will bring an enormous profit. It must be consummated! I come to you, therefore, direct from M. Clarke, to offer you a share of the profits that may accrue, upon the condition that you return the bonds immediately, you to go back at once to the United States.—we know you have engaged passage from Cherbourg on Wednesday; so this fits in with your plans,—and once in the United States you are to take necessary action to protect M. Clarke until such time as he can get there, and then— is it necessary to go on?"

"Engaged passage from Cherbourg on Wednesday!" There was an odd little intonation in Mr. Smith's voice. "You are hep to my plans, all right, aren't you? How much profit do I get, if I do all this?"

"One hundred thousand dollars. Monsieur."

"One hundred thousand dollars!" Mr. Smith was speaking with irritating deliberation. D'Aubigny's keen eyes searched the rugged face and found nothing.

"And if there are no profits?"

M. le Marquis shrugged his shoulders. "Then nothing, Monsieur. You take your chance with the rest of us. There are ninety-nine reasons why we should make a profit, and only one why we shouldn't; if we fail, of course M. Clarke is ruined. I am ruined, all of us; but we won't fail."

"If you get the bonds," Mr. Smith stipulated.

"We have the utmost faith in your discretion. Monsieur. One hundred thousand dollars is a great fortune."

"You seem to have no doubt that I have the bonds," Mr. Smith observed calmly. "May I ask how you came to know I have them?"

"Details are tiresome. Monsieur," remarked the Marquis evasively. "There were only three persons in Paris, in the world, I may say, who knew the bonds were in this city, these being M. Clarke, you, and myself. He hasn't them, I didn't get them; therefore— do you see?"

"But how did you come to know I have them?" Mr. Smith insisted. "I want to know."

"Well, the trained nurse— his disappearance gave us the clue." The Marquis seemed to be tremendously bored. "After M. Clarke's meeting with you, he was ill, and it was necessary to reengage this nurse. He came to the house, remained there iust two hours, then disappeared utterly. M. Clarke kept the bonds in the little leather bag under the sheets. Only the nurse could have found them."

"Perhaps you give me too much credit." Mr. Smith protested. "Maybe the nurse pinched them on his own account."

The tentative suggestion startled the Marquis for a moment; then he smiled shrewdly as he stared into the impassive face before him.

"It is idle to talk so, Monsieur. Besides, the nurse does not speak or read English and, while he might have been bribed to get the bonds for you, he on his own account wouldn't have known what they were about. We don't underestimate your activities since you have been in Paris. We admit that you are clever, and we are willing to pay for that cleverness— pay one hundred thousand dollars."

"Other people might have known about the bonds," Mr. Smith insisted; "his daughter, for instance."

"She could not know. Monsieur." The Marquis was quite positive about it. "She is innocent as a child; she would not have understood, anyway."

There was a slight pause. "I have heard it said, Monsieur, that America had no beautiful women. It is not true."

Something in his tone caused Mr. Smith to turn squarely in his seat and stare: something in the loathsome eyes of him caused Mr. Smith's powerful hands to close spasmodically. Oh, if he had M. le Marquis d'Aubigny in Passaic, out in the Second Ward, with Sweeney on the beat, what he would do to him! He couldn't have said why this sudden fierce hatred flamed within him; he only knew it was there.

"One hundred thousand dollars?" the Marquis was saying insinuatingly.

"One hundred thousand dollars," Mr. Smith repeated dully. It meant independence, wealth, power, back in Passaic.

"It is a fortune, Monsieur."

"It is a fortune," agreed Mr. Smith.

"You will return the bonds? "

Mr. Smith rose and stretched his long legs as he stared down on this withered little man. "I'm awfully glad Clarke sent you to me." he said slowly. "Go back and tell him that you saw me, that you put his proposition up to me, then present my compliments to him and tell him that I said he could go to blazes."

M. LE MARQUIS D'AUBIGNY came away from that inoffensive settle as if he had suddenly found it full of redhot needles. The shriveled face went white, then scarlet. "Monsieur, you will remember—" he began violently.

"And so far as I am concerned, you can go with him!" interrupted Mr. Smith.

Petrified by amazement, his clawlike hands trembling with rage, the Marquis stood still and permitted Mr. Smith to stroll out the door into the street.

xi

HELTER-SKELTER came a taxicab out of the Rue de Rivoli into the Place de la Concorde. It swished to the right around the obelisk and stopped abruptly. Mr. John Smith stood forward from the shadows. A woman, heavily veiled, thrust her head out of the open window of the cab.

"Quick, quick!" she exclaimed. "I am being followed!"

Mr. Smith knew the voice perfectly. The haste in the command quickened his sturdy legs, and he flung open the door of the vehicle just as another cab came whizzing round the corner. Mr. Smith glanced back once, dropped down into the seat beside the veiled woman, and banged the door.

"All right, son," he called to the chauffeur. "Hit it up!"

The driver evidently understood; for there was the clatter of a gear, hastily enmeshed, and the taxi began to move. Immediately behind them the other taxi was coughing as it slowed up. The woman's hand, chilled with terror, met Mr. Smith's in the darkness and clung. An odd thrill shot up Mr. Smith's spinal column and he laughed nervously.

"I guess that was going some!" he remarked triumphantly. Then, "Who is it following you? Why?"

"I don't know; but I— Look!"

She interrupted herself with a cry of dismay. Mr. Smith whirled in his seat, and there, peering in the open cab window, directly over his shoulder, was the face of— M. Remi! He had jumped for it and was standing on the running board outside. The girl's fingers gripped Mr. Smith's desperately, her slender body all a-tremble.

"Get down from there!" Mr. Smith commanded sharply.

"Mademoiselle et Monsieur—" M. Remi began.

"Get down from there!" Mr. Smith commanded the second time.

"Ah! M. Smith!"

The note of triumph in M. Remi's voice gave notice that he had recognized the man, even had he not used the name, and he peered intently into the face of the girl. Evidently he had not the slightest purpose of getting off the running board.

The cab gained speed. The girl, pressed closely against Mr. Smith's side, was moaning a little. Suddenly that mighty arm from Passaic swung, and a fist, hard as nails, landed squarely on the point of M. Remi's chin.

JUST as M. Polichinelle vanishes in the Theatre Guignol, so vanished M. Remi. He tumbled backward without a sound. The thud of his fall on the pavement startled the chauffeur, who seemed to awake suddenly to the extraordinary happenings in his cab. and the taxi began to slow. Mr. Smith thrust his head out the window over the chauffeur's shoulder.

"You understand English, don't you?"

"Oui, oui! Yes, sir."

"Well, this is a revolver here in my right hand— this, I mean." and Mr. Smith prodded him in the small of the back with his huge forefinger. "A gun, do you understand? Now it's up to you to run like the deuce. Beat it!"

"But, Monsieur, ze gentleman—"

"Drive on!"

There was no disobeying that order, particularly as it was emphasized by two more vigorous pokes in the back. Monsieur had said it was only a revolver! Oh, la la! Francois' frenzied imagination pictured it as a cannon. He fumbled with his clutches and levers, and the taxi went speeding up the Champs Elyseés. Mr. Smith, looking back a block or more, saw two men assisting M. Rerni to his feet. With a sigh of content he settled down into his seat beside the girl.

"I am not going to faint, really I am not," she stammered; but the tone of her voice, the icy grip of her fingers, convinced Mr. Smith that she was going to faint. "I hope— I hope the gentleman was not hurt!"

"Of course not," Mr. Smith assured her in nervous haste. "I just gave him a little tap; sort of pushed him, that's all. If you think you ire going to faint, I wish you'd tell me first where we're going, unless the chauffeur knows."

"He— he knows."

Whereupon she did faint. Mr. Smith felt the lithe figure grow suddenly rigid, then crumple up, and she sank almost into his arms. Vaguely he knew that a person in a fainting condition required air; so he stripped off the heavy veil that hid the girl's face. It was Edna Clarke! Of course! He knew that! Edna Clarke, pallid as death, limp, motionless! He sat staring at her hopelessly, waiting and wondering at the strangeness of it all.

MEANWHILE the taxicab sped like the wind up the Champs Elysees, darted round the Arc de Triomphe, and straightened out into the Avenue Victor Hugo. Mr. Smith hadn't the faintest idea where they were going; but they were on their way. Francois had not forgotten ze beeg American wiz ze beeg cannon. The little car was rocking with speed, and the muffler fairly boomed with the power he was crowding on.

For a mile or more past the Arc de Triomphe they sped on, Edna still lying against him inert, helpless. Then it occurred to Mr. Smith to look back. It so happens that the Avenue Victor Hugo is not a crowded thoroughfare after half-past ten o'clock at night; so he could see clearly—see another taxicab rocking, swaying along in pursuit at breakneck speed. He watched it, fascinated, for an instant, and then he knew! M. Remi was in that car, and it was gaining on them! Mr. Smith's massive jaws closed with a snap; he leaned out and poked Francois in the back.

"Faster!" he commanded.

"She no go faster," Francois wailed in dire distress. "She no go faster!"

Suddenly they went reeling across a wide avenue with a jounce that made Mr. Smith plop up and down inside like a pea in a cigar box. and then they seemed to be in the midst of a forest —it was the Bois de Boulogne following a ribbon like road. Just before they swung round the first turn Mr. Smith glanced back again. He wasn't positive, but his impression was that the cab in the rear had gained substantially. And that called for more thought. After twenty full seconds spent in consideration of the matter, he thrust his head out of the cab to hold converse with Francois. "Now, see here, son." he began, "don't stop driving, but listen to me. The harder you listen the less liable you are to get shot up."

"Oui, oui, Monsieur!"

" Here's a one hundred-franc note— that's twenty whole dollars in the country where folks live. I'm sticking it into your outside coat pocket here."

"Merci, Monsieur!"

"Now you are to drive just as fast as you know how until you come to some place where there is a sharp curve and lots of woods," Mr. Smith continued crisply. "Immediately you round that turn, out of sight of this taxi that's following, you are to stop for one second and let me get out. Do you get it?"

"Oui, Monsieur."

"When I get out of the cab. you're to drive! You've been piking along here like a three-legged goat. After I'm out of the cab, drive, do you understand? Go a long way, and go fast!"

"Oui, oui. You want me to— to— what you call him?— shake ze cab?"

"There's a detective in that cab, and if you don't shake it you're pinched.'

Another hundred yards, and Mr. Smith saw a glint of water straight ahead.

"Ze curve. Monsieur," Francois announced. They swished round a corner, and the taxi stopped. Mr. Smith, with a feeling almost of sacrilege, gathered up the limp, inert figure of the girl in his powerful arms and leaped out.

"Now, son— skiddoo for you! Twenty-three!"

The little taxi fairly leaped out of its tracks, and was lost instantly in a cloud of dust. Mr. Smith, holding his precious burden close, dodged back into the woods just as the pursuing taxi swerved round the corner and flashed past. Sheltered by the gloom of the trees, he stood looking after it for a moment, then, grinning cheerfully, strode off through the forest.

xii

IT was nearly midnight when Mr. John Smith ushered Edna Clarke into a small private dining room of a quaint little place back in the Latin Quarter, a place where they might talk undisturbed. She had roused herself from the faint, to find that she was being carried through a forest, borne lightly as a child in great arms which were rigid as steel, arms that held her close, close as a mother holds a frightened little one. Her pallid face went scarlet as she slipped to the ground. Mr. Smith gave a word of explanation, and then they had taken a taxicab back the way they had come, and beyond to the Latin Quarter. They had both been strangely silent on the long ride. She had asked only two questions, and he had answered them— no more.

"Are you a detective?"

"No, ma'am. Some people in Paris may think I am; but I am not."

Edna gasped, it was a sigh of relief, and Mr. Smith leaned toward her suddenly. He thought she was going to faint again.

"Then, what is your business?" curiously.

"I am assistant paying teller in your father's bank in Passaic, New Jersev.

"Oh!"

Then followed a long, moody silence, unbroken until Mr. Smith offered his hand to assist her from the taxi. In the small dining room a sip of wine brought the color back to her cheeks, and a certain tense fear passed, leaving the blue eyes clear again. To Mr. Smith the last hour had seemed all a dream. He couldn't believe it had happened, and yet here— here before him was the girl. He waited, waited patiently for her to speak.

"IT'S all very—very strange, isn't it?" she queried at last, as their eyes met.

"Yes, ma'am."

"From the time I knew you were searching for my father I thought you were a detective. It's strange that I should never have seen you in the bank."

"It's stranger that I didn't see you, ma'am. I'm tucked away in a cage all the time, where you wouldn't see me unless you looked for me. I don't believe I ever saw you in the bank; but I know who you are. Years ago, when you were in Paris, I used to write letters to you at your father's dictation. I was his private secretary. And once I saw a picture of you. I don't recall ever having seen you, though, until that first day in Paris, in front of the Hotel Ritz."

"You didn't see me on ship-board?"

"No, ma'am. I don't recall that I saw anybody on board ship. All the time I wasn't worrying about the business that was bringing me to Paris I was trying to invent a way to hold my breakfast down. I was quite busy."

The girl's eyes had been softly aglow; but now the old troubled look that Mr. Smith had seen in them before came back.

"It is of that business that I want to speak to you now," she said slowly.

"Yes, ma'am. I know it."

"Know it?"

" Yes, ma'am."

For an instant she sought to read the straight staring eyes; there was nothing there save masterful assurance. "You are not a detective, Mr. Smith. You have told me that, and I believe it. Then why did you come all the way to Pans to search for my father? Were you sent?"

"No, ma'am. I was not sent."

"Then why did you come?"

"I'd rather not tell you, ma'am. It's a little personal matter between us."

"And why, that day at the Café de la Paix, did you permit yourself to be arrested under the name of my father, when my father was there within reach, and you knew he was there?"

"I'd rather not tell you, ma'am. It wouldn't do any good for you to know."

"I must know, Mr. Smith! Either I have done my father a great injustice, or you have. He will tell me nothing. It seems to be within your power to make it all clear to me, and certainly it is within my power to rectify a— a grave error, if it all means what I'm afraid it means. She came back to the original question. "Why did you follow my father to Paris? I must know. Don't think you must spare my feelings. I must know!"

MR. SMITH squirmed uneasily in his seat and after a moment rose and stared out the window for a long time. "I am thirty-three years old," he said at last, irrelevantly. "Twenty years of that time I have worked for your father. I was his office boy first. Then I studied shorthand and used to help the stenographers in the bank. One day I was called upon to assist your father in some special work. He liked the way I did it, and a year or so later I became his private secretary. I held down that job until about six years ago, and in that time, of course, ma'am, I learned a great deal about his personal business. It was then that I used to write letters to you, here in Paris." He paused.

"Go on," the girl urged.

"The bank's business grew, ma'am, and finally there was need of an assistant paying teller. Mr. Clarke gave me the job. and I have held it ever since. Being assistant paying teller isn't of any particular importance; but it carries responsibilities. That is, ma'am. I don't mean that the fate of the world hangs upon a man in such a position; but in the course of a month he will handle, perhaps, millions and millions of cither people's money. That's the sort of responsibility I mean. All paying tellers have that kind; but I had another kind. For instance, sometimes stocks and bonds are left with a bank as security for a loan. say. Those securities are in my care; I am responsible for them. They are sealed by the president of the bank in my presence, and my own seal is added in his presence before the securities are placed in the vault. It comes down to this, ma'am: there are two persons responsible for the safety of such securities, and either can call the other to an accounting in the event of any irregularity."

He stopped suddenly, struck by the frightened, haunted look in her eyes. Her slim white fingers, bare of gloves, were interlocked fiercely.

"Well ?" she insisted.

"I guess I hadn't better go on, ma'am."

"You must!" she commanded. "I must understand it!"

"It will hurt you, ma'am." After a little pause, "I'd hate to feel that I had hurt you."

The girl rose and went to him pleadingly. Her hands were at rest on his arm, her face, white again, upturned to his. the faint perfume of her hair was in his nostrils. "You must go on!" she commanded. "Whatever you may say cannot be worse than this agony of suspense, uncertainty."

"WELL, about four months ago one hundred and fifty ten- thousand- dollar United States bonds— that is, a million and a half dollars in negotiable securities— were left in our keeping." Mr. Smith continued. "They were sealed by your father in my presence; I added my seal in his presence. They were put into the vault. About two months ago your father, as you know, came to Paris. About three weeks ago I had occasion to rummage around in the vault, and I discovered that mice had gnawed a hole, as big as a silver dollar, say, in that sealed package. Then I discovered, ma'am, that the bonds were gone. There was only blank paper inside the package."

"They were stolen, you mean?" The words came with an effort.

"They were missing, ma'am. The seals had been tampered with, broken, and new seals affixed. It had been done cleverly, so cleverly that even I should not have detected it if I hadn't known that the bonds supposed to be inside were gone. I had no choice in reaching a conclusion, ma'am. The bonds were missing, and your father was gone." His voice softened suddenly. "I don't mean to hurt you. ma'am; I'm telling you merely because you insist."

"I understand." Edna said faintly. "What else?"

"I patched up the hole in the package, replaced it where it was, and the following day I asked for leave of absence for several weeks. I remained there a couple of days while experts went over my books,— they wouldn't dare to open the package of bonds in your father's absence,—then I sailed for France. I came, as you know, to find your father." His tone hardened suddenly. " I believe that day in the cafe, if I had not seen that he had been ill, and you had not been with him, I should have killed him! I want you to understand, ma'am, what all this meant to me."

"Killed him!" the girl repeated. "And yet, when he was in danger of discovery and arrest, you permitted the officer to take you. Why?"

"That requires some more explaining. Bear in mind, please, that the fact that those bonds are missing is not known to any person connected with the bank, except your father and myself. If I could come to Paris, find your father, compel him to return the bonds and replace them in the vault, no one connected with the bank need ever have known.

"When the detective came and arrested me as Clarke, I allowed him to do it for the reason that I knew I should find your father the second time. If I had pointed out the real Clarke to the detective then, your father won. .riiave assumed that the loss of the bonds had been discovered, and brought about a snarl that these funny little policemen in Paris would never have solved. It would have meant his arrest and mine ultimately on a charge of embezzlement, where, if I could keep them away from him, it meant nothing particularly, unless of course the theft— er— the bonds had been missed. As a matter of fact, that arrest eased my mind a lot, because I learned from the police that there was no charge against your father, which means that the bonds have not been missed, and there was no charge against me. Some one in the United States has asked a private detective agency to locate your father, and the police, thinking I was Mr. Clarke, pinched me to bring the matter to a climax."

"That search was instituted. I imagine, at the direction of my uncle in New York." the girl explained. "We knew father had come to Paris, and then we had been unable to hear from him for weeks. It was because he was ill with typhoid, and unconscious, of course."

"Yes, ma'am. It sounds awfully complicated; but it isn't. The theft— I don't quite mean that, ma'am— the disappearance of the bonds has not been discovered. That is all, ma'am, I think."

FOR a long time the girl stood, her hands gripping his, staring, staring into the rugged face. "I think I am beginning to understand." she said slowly at last. "If the bonds are returned, it means that my father is not a— a thief? It means that this matter would never become public? It means—"

"It means the saving of your father's business reputation, and the saving of mine." Mr. Smith interrupted. "Frankly, the saving of his reputation was not the first thing in my mind when I came to Paris; it was the saving of my own. I am leaving the bank within a few months to become cashier of another bank. It is a promotion, ma'am. If this matter comes out, not only is your father ruined, but I am ruined. I am ambitious, ma'am," he apologized.

"I understand, Mr. Smith," said the girl softly. "Suppose— suppose those missing bonds should be placed in your hands? Is it too late to save my father, to save yourself?"

"It isn't too late, unless they have found out at the bank that the bonds are gone." Mr. Smith replied. "If they were placed in my hands, I should do the thing I intended to do,— take them back, replace them in the vault, and— that's all."

"A million and a half dollars!" the girl mused.

"Suppose I should tell you. Mr. Smith, that my father hasn't the bonds now?"

"I know it, ma'am."

She seemed startled. "How did you know it?" He didn't answer. "Perhaps you know where they are?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Where?"

"You have them."

THE girl turned away suddenly with a meaningless gesture of her slender hands and dropped into a chair at the table. At last she looked up resolutely, defiantly. "Yes. I stole them, Mr. Smith— stole them from my father!" she said. "He kept them in a little leather bag in his bed. I heard a strange conversation between my father and Marquis d'Aubigny, and afterward—"

"I have met him," interposed Mr. Smith grimly.

"—and afterward I found the key to the bag and removed the bonds," Edna rushed on. "I didn't know what I intended to do with them then; but I knew they had been— I knew they were not my father's, and—" She spread her hands in a little helpless movement. "My father was very ill again after that meeting with you. He is ill now, and it was necessary to have a nurse, the man who nursed him during all those weeks when we didn't know where he was. The nurse came. I was afraid he would discover that the bag was empty, and— and I sent him away, bribed him to go. Now my father knows the bonds are gone and another nurse has come. I stole the bonds. Mr. Smith!"

Mr. Smith stared as if expecting her to go on. She drop lied her head on her hands, and her shoulders shoolc with a storm of emotion. He took a step toward her, then stopped. "Yes, ma'am." he said helplessly.

"I sent the note to you because I thought— I knew— you would understand." she continued. "When I left the house to meet you. I was followed. I don't know why, but it frightened me."

"I know why," said Mr. Smith. "I'll tell you sometime."

"I'm going to place the bonds in your hands, because I know you will do the necessary thing, whatever it is." Edna rose suddenly and came to him. "I don't know why," she said frankly, "but I have more faith in you than any person I ever met. You will take the bonds home, and you know what else to do. I don't. You will?"

Mr. Smith nodded.

"And you will do all you can to protect my father until he is well enough to return?"

Mr. Smith had come to Paris with the avowed intention of pounding Clarke to a pulp. He was being asked to protect him now— and he nodded a promise that he would!

"I was so sure of you," and Edna's pleading hands fluttered and came to rest on his arm, "that I engaged passage for you from Cherbourg on Wednes-

"Yes, ma'am. I know that."

She didn't ask how he knew. From the folds of the light coat she wore she produced a package, carefully wrapped. " Here are the bonds,'' she said simply. "Whatever your motive in returning them, you are doing me— doing my father— the greatest favor that one can do. Some day it may be within my power to repay you. after a manner. You'll have to take my word that I shall do it if the opportunity ever offers."

For the first time in his business life Mr. John Smith forgot the bank, forgot his commercial integrity, forgot all else in the world save this wonderful woman, with eyes aglow, with hair shimmering in the soft radiance of the light, with scarlet lips pleading. She read the hungriness in the straight staring eyes and impetuously extended both hands. Bending low, he kissed them.

xiii

MR. JOHN SMITH was interrupted in the task of addressing envelopes— there seemed to be sixty or seventy of them of all sorts, shapes, and sizes— by a call to the telephone.

"This is M. Baudet at the Prefecture of Police," he was informed over the wire.

"Hello, Cap," Mr. Smith responded cheerfully. "How are you?"

"Will you so honor me. Monsieur, as to come to my office on a trifling little matter that happened last night?" M. Baudet requested.

"Oh, you mean that thing in the cab? I'll be over there in about an hour and a half; sometime before noon, anyway."

"Thanks, Monsieur."

"I was just on the point of calling you up," Mr. Smith went on. "There's something I want to see you about."

"Indeed! What did it so please Monsieur as to have on his chest?

"I have found Clarke. I thought you might be interested; so I was coming down to tell you about it."

The telephone wire fairly buzzed with a sudden burst of questions. Mr. Smith listened for an instant: then, with a grin:

"I'll be over and tell you all about it."

Whereupon he hung up the receiver and returned to his task of addressing envelopes.

HE chose a long, circuitous route to the Prefecture of Police, pausing in the office to drop three or four envelops into the mailbox: thence along the Quai d'Orsay, past the Hotel du President, and on up beside the curving river as far as the Eiffel Tower. He crossed there and leisurely sauntered up the Avenue Kleber toward the Arc de Triomphe, stopping ever and anon to drop a few more envelops into the mailboxes. Just beyond the Arc de Triomphe he climbed on a bus, and stepped off at Montmartre. Here he mailed more letters, after which he took a taxicab for the Prefecture of Police.

Directly in front of the entrance to the building is a mailbox. Mr. Smith looked at it thoughtfully, dropped two or three letters into that, then went inside. M. Baudet rose to greet him. A smile of welcome parted his perfumed whiskers, and he offered a delicately manicured hand. Mr. Smith shook it.

"Be seated, Monsieur. It is welcome news that you have succeeded in locating M. Clarke. I suppose it is another compliment to the police of your country for you, one man, to have found M. Clarke, when I, with half a dozen, failed?"

"Oh, not necessarily," Mr. Smith responded loftily. "Between me and you, Cap. I don't believe there's another police system in the world like this one in Paris."

"Thank you. Monsieur," and M. Baudet beamed his gratification. "And now where is M. Clarke?"

"Before we get to that, Cap, I believe there's something you want to talk to me about, isn't there? Suppose we take things in order. What is it?"

BAUDET shrugged his shoulders. "It is of no A consequence, a mere trifle," he explained. "I suppose it arises from a difference in police methods, a difference between your country and mine. In your country. Monsieur, we understand perfectly that it is occasionally necessary for men in our profession to use force. Here it is very different. A blow in the face is a criminal offense. I am referring, Monsieur, to the incident in the cab last night."

"Yes, I understand," Mr. Smith nodded.

"The other day, when we discovered that you are who you are, we allowed you to go. Monsieur, and said nothing about the girl who also has been seeking M. Clarke. If you were not M. Clarke, then M. Clarke remained to tie found. The girl was one of our clues. We lost track of her for awhile; but last night, quite accidentally, M. Remi saw her and followed her in a taxicab."

Mr. Smith began to look surprised.

"M. Remi, of course, was not aware that you, by some ruse, had inveigled the girl into coming to meet you. We do not blame you. Monsieur; we admire the skill with which you brought about this, so difficult a thing: but we were not aware of your connection with it. Understand, M. Remi was following the girl. When you got into the cab he assumed it was M. Clarke, and jumped upon the running board. Then, Monsieur, you struck him— M. Remi!"

"Well, well!" remarked Mr. Smith. "Was that M. Remi?"

"So it was, Monsieur. He gave chase in another cab, as you know; but when he caught it, it was empty. It was clever. Monsieur, very clever; but from M. Remi's viewpoint it was also painful. Neither M. Remi nor myself desires to be unpleasant about the incident, recognizing in you, as we do, a master of the craft; but, in all the circumstances, we agreed that it might be advisable to warn you against employing such— er— such forcible tactics. We trust you will understand our position?"

"I think I'm hep, Cap. I'm sorry I hit him. You see, I'd framed this thing up, and when the girl came she told me she was being followed. I didn't know who was following her; but I couldn't afford to take any risk of having my plans knocked sky west and crooked, so when a man came sticking his nose in the cab I hit it."

M. Baudet considered the matter in detail and smiled. "Your explanation is quite satisfactory, M. Smith. However, in your future work in France it might be well to remember that striking a man with your fist is a criminal offense. You may kick a man, or slap him, I mean if violence is absolutely necessary; but you must not hit him." There was a pause. "And now, M. Clarke. You say you have found him. Where?"

"He is living in a little apartment in the Rue St. Honore," Mr. Smith told him frankly, and he gave the street number, "under the name of Charles Roebling. The girl in the cab with me was his daughter Edna. Mr. Clarke came to Paris on a matter of personal business, and it was not advisable that his real identity should be known until this business was disposed of. Immediately after his arrival he was stricken with typhoid fever and lay for several weeks practically unconscious. His friends in the United States, unable to reach him, not knowing the name he had assumed, grew uneasy about him, and so you were asked to find him. His daughter, meanwhile, was uneasy. and she came to find him. I came to find him in the course of my duty."

M. Baudet nursed his perfumed whiskers for a minute or so in silence. This American detective, who spoke not a word of French, who had worked alone, had discovered the man whom half a dozen of his own detectives, speaking four and five languages each, had not been able to find! It was a reflection upon the boasted efficiency of his system. He looked quite sad about it.

"I tell you what I'll do, Cap," Mr. Smith volunteered magnanimously. " Suppose you cable to the people who asked you to find him and say that you have found him. I've made no report as yet; so you'll get first crack at it. I don't mind, because, as I say, it was all in the day's work. It might mean something to you."

M. Baudet rose and shook Mr. Smith's hand. The honor of his beloved France was saved through the generosity of this so big American!

ONE of M. Baudet's satellites entered with a card. M. Baudet nodded, and the satellite vanished through the door. Immediately M. le Marquis d'Aubigny entered. He stopped short at the sight of Mr. Smith and stood for an instant gazing at the two men in turn. Then his evil eyes lighted up triumphantly.

"This meeting is most propitious," he said to M. Baudet. "I just came to ask that this man Smith be taken into custody on a charge of theft."

"Theft!" exclaimed M. Baudet. "Why, M. le Marquis, there must be some mistake! M. Smith is a detective."

"M. Smith is an impostor," the Marquis declared hotly. "Says he is a detective, eh? Ask him to show you his credentials, his badge. On behalf of M. W. Mandeville Clarke, I accuse him of the theft of seven million five hundred thousand francs in United States bonds from an apartment in the Rue St. Honore, and I demand his arrest!"

Mute, motionless, Mr. Smith stood, as the structure he had painfully erected to save himself, and incidentally Clarke, from ruin and a prison cell came clattering down about his ears. This was the end, an airing of the whole malodorous thing in the press and in court, discovery by the bank officials in Passaic of the huge theft, and the inevitable collapse of the bank in consequence. This, and more, it meant.

"Well, M. Smith," demanded M. Baudet curtly, "what have you to say?"

Mr. Smith faced M. le Marquis. "Well— you—idiot!" he remarked.

xiv

FOR an hour or more, M. Baudet, grim visaged, artful, domineering, showered questions upon Mr. John Smith, and to all of them he received the same answer, utter silence. Threats, pleadings, cajolings, taunts, they all came to the same. He twined his manicured fingers in his perfumed whiskers and plucked at them until devastation seemed imminent; he smoked vile cigarettes fiercely and continuously. If only this pig of an American, this impostor, would say something— just one word!

Apparently undisturbed, Mr. Smith permitted his straight staring eyes to linger upon M. Baudet meditatively, and occasionally, at some unusual outburst, there was a flicker of interest in them; but his lips were sealed. At first he had seen a possible avenue of escape, both for himself and for Clarke, a way of staying the avalanche that d'Aubigny was bringing down on them. If he could have reached Clarke before the police reached him, and closed his mouth! That was the hope. It died when d'Aubigny, accompanied by M. Remi, rushed away to bring Clarke. Not understanding the true condition of things, Clarke would babble, and then chaos would come. Hopelessly enough, Mr. Smith sat waiting for it.

Immediately after his arrest— arresting him seemed to be a habit with the police of Paris!— Mr. Smith submitted gracefully to a search. The bonds

should have been on his person; M. Baudet had said it. They should have been on his person, because no man in his senses would leave seven and a half million francs knocking about his room. But they were not on his person.

Upon discovery of this fact, M. Baudet had despatched two of his men to the Maison de Treville to search Mr. Smith's room.

"I am informed," he told them, "that there are one hundred and fifty of these bonds, in denominations of ten thousand dollars each. They should make a package four or five inches thick. And, since I think of it," he went on shrewdly, "the bulk of the package probably accounts for the prisoner not carrying it about with him. That package is somewhere in that room. Find it!"

Alone with M. Baudet, who sat at his desk with a revolver beside him, Mr. Smith waited, while he stared placidly out the window. A short distance away, across the Place du Parvis, was the cathedral of Notre Dame. It reminded him of the granite church back home, the one with the double spires.

Home! Passaic! In contemplation of that heavenly thought Mr. Smith temporarily forgot his troubles, and the questions of M. Baudet fell on deaf ears.

FINALLY there came a clatter at the door, followed by the reappearance of Marquis d'Aubigny and M. Remi. Mr. Smith glanced around quickly; they were alone.

"M. Clarke?" demanded M. Baudet. "Where is he?"

''He is ill, dangerously ill," replied the Marquis. "There has been a relapse. Two physicians and a nurse are with him. They refused to let us see him, or even to send word to him. It may be three or four days, even a week, before anyone is permitted to talk to him."

Mr. Smith almost smiled. Here was a respite! There was still a possibility of reaching Clarke and shutting him up!

"Were the bonds found?" the Marquis asked.

"They will be found, Monsieur," replied M. Baudet confidently. "My men haven't returned; but I am expecting them any minute. They will tear the room to ribbons if necessary; but they will find them!"

M. le Marquis d'Aubigny went over and stood in front of Mr. Smith with a sneering smile about his thin lips, the evil eyes aglitter with triumph. "And how does Monsieur the Thief feel about it now?" he taunted.

Mr. Smith didn't alter his position; he didn't even look up. His powerful hands lay idly on the arms of his chair. " Look here, Cap," he remarked calmly to M. Baudet, ''if you let this little, dried up, shriveled shrimp come around here making unpleasant remarks to me. I'll get up and push him all about."

It was the first word Mr. Smith had uttered. Its effect was electrical upon M. Baudet. "Ah! You have decided to talk?'

Mr. Smith didn't say.

"Will you admit that you stole the bonds?"

Mr. Smith didn't say.

''Will you deny it?"

Mr. Smith didn't say.

M. Baudet dropped down at his desk again M. le Marquis, with a malignant grin distorting his pasty face, addressed him.

"This man," and he pointed at Mr. Smith, "has threatened me. You heard, Monsieur. He is a dangerous man. I demand that he be handcuffed!"

"But, M. le Marquis, I hardly—"

"I demand that he be handcuffed!"

Mr. Smith extended his hands without a word of protest, and at a nod from M. Baudet the slender steel bands were slipped about his wrists by M. Remi.

SO he sat, until the door opened again, this time to admit one of the two sleuths who had been sent to search his room. He seemed crestfallen.

"Nothing, Monsieur," he said simply.

"Nothing!"

"Nothing. We searched the room as no room was ever searched. We ransacked the closets, took the wardrobe to pieces, destroyed the mattress, took up the carpet, tore out the baseboards, examined M. Smith's belongings, and found nothing! The bonds are not there. I came for further orders."

M. Baudet rose with an exclamation, and for half a minute he stood staring down on Mr. Smith, placid, unruffled; then, commandingly," Where— are— those bonds?"

Mr. Smith didn't say.

Then came another interruption. A voice of protest was raised suddenly outside the door. It ceased as the door was flung open. There was a rush of skirts, and Edna Clarke, with flaming face, stood before them.

"They told me at the Maison de Treville that Mr. Smith was under arrest here," she explained hurriedly. I must—"

Then her eyes, defiant, met the straight staring gaze of M. Smith. Mutely he extended his hands, bound together by the slender bands of steel. For an instant she shrank from him in horror, shuddering at what she saw. then rushed to him, clasping his hands in her own. "What does it mean?" she asked tensely.

"It means that I am under arrest, charged with the theft of one million five hundred thousand dollars' worth of bonds from your father," Mr. Smith told her simply. Here was his salvation, this girl!

"You!" she gasped. "You the thief?"

"Of course you know I did not steal the bonds. Miss Clarke." he went on calmly, and a warning flashed in his eyes. "I did not steal the bonds, and," meaningly, "I haven't them now. The police have searched me and my room. They found nothing. "

Fascinated, bewildered, yet knowing there was some hidden message in his words, the girl was silent. Finally the light of perfect understanding illumined her face. ''Of course I know," Mr. Smith went on placidly, with his eyes rigidly fixed upon hers, "that your father does not have any bonds in Paris with him; but I haven't told the police. If your father will tell them—"

"How do you know it?" interrupted the Marquis.

"Shut up, or I'll throw you out the window!" replied Mr. Smith unemotionally. Then to M. Baudet, "If you want to know how I know it, I'll tell you that I'm paying teller in the bank of which Mr. Clarke is president, and if you'll inquire of him you'll find that he had no bonds for me to steal."

"But how— why—" d'Aubigny stammered. ''He was to invest a million and a half dollars in— He was to invest it! He said the bonds had been stolen! So, why— how—"

"I'll remain here in the jug, Cap," and, heedless of the bewilderment in Marquis d'Aubigny's manner, Mr. Smith turned to M. Baudet, "until Mr. Clarke is able to speak for himself. If he tells you there were no bonds to be stolen, that ends it, doesn't it?"

"Well," remarked M. Baudet after a puzzled pause, "if no bonds were stolen, of course—"

"Well, Cap, that's the answer. He'll tell you none was stolen." He faced Edna again for an instant, and a whimsical smile curled the corners of his mouth. "My address will be the town calaboose for the next few days. I'll be in any time you or your father choose to call."

xv

MR. JOHN SMITH spent the next four days behind prison bars— just like the prison bars in dear old Passaic. He was irritatingly cheerful about it, and met new avalanches of questions from M. Baudet with a pleasant smile and— silence.

Twice M. Baudet called, and twice he stormed about the cell, only to be beaten back, defeated, angered, by the unholy calm of his prisoner. Mr. Smith stood broadly upon the general principle that the less he said the less he might have to explain, and this policy, combined with the fact that he was locked up, seemed to insure him at least temporarily from further trouble.

Meanwhile, M. le Marquis d'Aubigny buzzed about with a bewildered expression on the pasty face of him, seeking the true inwardness of it all. It had a true inwardness somewhere, else why all this maze of contradictions and untoward happenings? But he couldn't lay his delicate fingers to it. There was one thing he could do, keep the police constantly on the search for the missing bonds, and he did that. They needed no urging. There were bonds, because M. Clarke had intended to use them in a great business deal. He had even signed the preliminary papers, and had opened the leather bag to produce the bonds, only to find it was empty. There were bonds— certainement! Mr. Smith had said to the contrary; but he was— what you call him?— the big bluffer.

M. Baudet and his satellites were singularly receptive to the suggestion that Mr. Smith was a big bluffer. On two separate occasions he had compelled them to shove their cards in the pack and ask for a new deal. They had him in their hands just at that psychological moment when he must have been maturing plans for the theft of seven and a half million francs—and they had released him! M. Baudet had swallowed hook and line the idea that Mr. Smith was a detective. He couldn't remember that Mr. Smith had ever said he was a detective; but— Oh, la la! It made his head ache! Now the only thing to do was to wait until Clarke recovered sufficiently to give the facts in the case.

ON the morning of the fifth day M. Baudet called upon Mr. Smith in his cell, with the information that the physicians would permit a very short interview with Mr. Clarke. Mr. Smith rose and put on his hat.

"It is most irregular, this thing of allowing you to be present at the interview," M. Baudet explained; "but M. Clarke has refused to talk at all unless you are present. Besides, the circumstances are unusual, and I have consented."

"Good!" remarked Mr. Smith. "Has Clarke been allowed to see anybody yet?"

"Only his daughter. She was with him last night for half an hour."

Looking straight into the inquisitive eyes of M. Baudet, Mr. John Smith of Passaic New Jersey, laughed. "Cap," he queried enigmatically, "what is French for lemon?"

"Citron," M. Baudet informed him after a puzzled pause. "Why?"

"Well, that's what you're going to get— a citron," remarked Mr. Smith.

M. Baudet pondered it all the way to the little apartment in the Rue St. Honore where M. le Marquis was waiting. Citron! What had that to do with this most mysterious case? He doesn't know yet.

Worn, haggard, white, feeble as a child, helpless in bed, yet with that same old commanding glitter in his eyes that Mr. Smith knew so well, Mr. Clarke received the three of them. M. Baudet. M. le Marquis d'Aubigny, and plain John Smith of Passaic. The physician had withdrawn; Edna stood beside the Ded watchfully. Her eyes met Mr. Smith's as he entered and she smiled bravely.

"Father," she said softly, "here is Mr. Smith."

The gaze of the sick man lingered for an instant upon the keen, inquiring face of M. Baudet, thence shifted to the Marquis, and finally was halted by the straight staring eyes of Mr. Smith. For a second, perhaps, they stared each at the other, and Clarke lifted a wasted hand.

"Hello, Smith," he said. "I'm glad to see you."

"Same to you, Mr. Clarke," and Mr. Smith shook the proffered hand. " I'm sorry you've been ill, sir."

Again Clarke looked at M. Baudet. "Well," he questioned abruptly, "what is it? My physician has given me only ten minutes to talk to you."

"THIS gentleman, as you may know," and M. Baudet indicated Mr. Smith, "is now being held prisoner on the charge of stealing seven and a half million francs worth of United States bonds from you. He was arrested on complaint of M. le Marquis d'Aubigny, who gave me to understand that he was acting in your behalf. M. le Marquis said you had these bonds in denominations of ten thousand dollars each; that you told him they must have been stolen. He said further that you and he had agreed that M. Smith must have stolen the bonds with the assistance of a trained nurse who was here, this assumption being based principally upon the fact that only three persons in Paris knew the bonds were here. M. le Marquis d'Aubigny, yourself, and M. Smith. Frankly, we have been unable to connect M. Smith directly with the disappearance of any bonds, although there are many mystifying things connected with his presence here. Certain it is that M. Smith did not have the bonds on him at the time of his arrest immediately following the report of the theft, and certain it is they were not hidden in his room. Where they are, we do not know. You are ill, Monsieur; I am stating it briefly."

Clarke's tense gaze shifted to d'Aubigny. "You reported a theft," he said. "By whose authority? Did I ask you to report a theft?"

"The bonds were gone, Monsieur. You said so yourself. We even agreed that M. Smith took them. I reported it on my own authority."

"The bonds were gone, you say?" Clarke questioned sharply. "How do you know they were gone? How did you know there were any bonds? Did you ever see them?"

"I didn't see them; but—"

"In view of all the circumstances in the case and the unwarranted arrest of Smith here, I suppose I'll have to go into the details." Clarke was talking to M. Baudet. "The Marquis was in the United States six months ago and came to see me in Passaic about a business matter. We had had previous financial relations, and this one he suggested seemed attractive. I told him I would consider it, and I did consider it. This is what brought me to Paris three months ago. Immediately after I arrived I was stricken with fever and lay here for weeks practically unconscious, and because of the name I had assumed my friends and relatives in the United States lost track of me and grew uneasy. It had been my purpose to investigate quietly this matter the Marquis suggested, and even he wasn't to know that I was in Pans. This illness threw all my plans out of gear. When I became convalescent I had a friend look into the situation for me, and on the strength of his report I was willing to go ahead.

"Now comes the thing that so complicated affairs and indirectly resulted in Mr. Smith's arrest. It was my original purpose to raise funds in the United States to go into this enterprise. I lost so much time, however, that when the Marquis came to me with a statement that the deal must be consummated within a day or so it was impossible to get funds from the United States in time. I was confident, however, that I could get the funds from London. I was so confident that I told the Marquis I had the bonds, and even told him their denomination, and showed him the bag that was supposed to hold them.

"There are tricks in vour profession, M. Baudet, just as there are in mine. I didn't get the funds from London as I expected; but I permitted the deal to go ahead up to the point where I was to pay a million and a half dollars as my part. Then I opened the bag to produce the bonds, and it was empty. It was a trick by which I calculated to hold up the deal for a couple of weeks,—in other words, to gain time. —enabling me to come in later. So. vou see. I had no bonds; no bonds were stolen; I didn't even report the bonds were stolen. I'm sorry I have to put myself in this position; but it's only fair to my good friend Smith. He is an official in my bank at home, and the last man on earth that one could associate with theft."

MR. SMITH'S eyes were bulging with admiration. He had never known the old man to fail in a crisis, and he hadn't failed now. Edna was smiling softly as she stroked the emaciated hand she held. M. Baudet's face was corrugated with wrinkles of perplexity.

"It was a trick, then?" demanded the Marquis curtly.

"That's a pretty good guess," and Clarke smiled benignly.

"A contemptible, disreputable—" the Marquis began.

"Never mind details, son," interrupted Mr. Smith. "Mr. Clarke is not well. Any time you want to discuss this matter further, come to me. I'll talk it over with you."

M. Baudet shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "There is nothing to be done, then, M. le Marquis," he queried; "that is, unless you have been misled, and this is not M. Clarke."

The Marquis shook his head. "It is M. Clarke," he said. "I know him well. I have known him for years."

"And if you have any further doubt about it," Clarke added, "go ask the American Ambassador. He's an intimate friend of mine. He will vouch for my identity, for my personal integrity, and for anything else you like."

The door opened and the physician came bustling in. "Eleven minutes!" he announced. "That is all. Messieurs."

"It's enough. Doc," remarked Mr. Smith, and he turned to face M. Baudet. "You know I told you you'd get a— a citron out of this."

xvi

WITHIN the week Mr. John Smith made several amazing discoveries. For instance, he discovered that the sky was blue over Paris, and that trees were green, and grass was velvety, and that birds sang— of course, not so well as they sang in Passaic; but there was much to commend in their efforts. Things must have been that way all along. Odd. how he had overlooked it! In other ways too Paris was looking up. Notre Dame, as compared to the granite church back home, had, perhaps, a shade the best of it, and he came to admit that Pont Alexander III. put it all over the bridge down near the orphan asylum. As for the Louvre— well, he had been hasty in his judgment. Now that he had had a chance to look at it, it didn't remind him at all of the rubber works back home.

All of which meant that Mr. Smith had reached that point of a man's life when the external aspect of all things is softened and beautified by some new bom quality within himself. Always the change is wrought by some trivial thing, like the lingering touch of a slender hand, or the haunting curl of scarlet lips, or the shy upward glance of timid eyes. Mr. Smith didn't know precisely when or where the great change came. He only knew that on the second day after his release from arrest he had talked an hour or more with Edna Clarke, and since then his vision had cleared. When he bade her goodby he was preparing to catch the steamer at Cherbourg for home. At his hotel he found a note that stayed him. It said:

The Lord loveth a cheerful liar. I hope you are satisfied. You must remain in Paris until I am able to talk with you. The doctor says it may be five days yet. Things are not so bad as you think. W. M. C.

Mr. Smith was content to stay; in fact, it was with a feeling of exultation that he unpacked his suitcase. Even his unholy passion for Passaic was held in check. Four or five days more in Paris! That meant further talks with Edna, and that meant— He didn't care if he never saw Main-ave. again. And he did see Edna half a dozen times. Twice they were alone together, and at other times a frumpy old Aunt Emma appeared. Aunt Emma, deeply beloved of herself, had refused to tuck herself away in a shabby little apartment in the Rue St. Honore; she had been living at the Ritz. Her presence shadowed Mr. Smith's happiness at first; then he forgot she was in existence, and it wasn't so bad. Those were the halcyon days! Mr. Smith dreamed through them, light hearted as a lark.

AT last came the summons from Mr. Clarke, and Mr. Smith went to him. The trained nurse had been sent away, and Edna, at a nod from her father, withdrew. Mr. Clarke was propped up in bed. his masterful eyes alight, his lips set, and a tinge of color again in his withered cheeks.

"Now, Smith, just between you and me," he began without preliminary, "where the deuce are those bonds?"

"Bonds?" Mr. Smith repeated blandly. "Bonds? I thought you said you had none?"

"Never mind that," said Clarke impatiently. "You beat me; I admit it. There's no need to taunt me. You put me in a position where I had to lie, and I did it. Now where are the bonds?"

Mr. Smith paced the length of the room a couple of times, then turned and faced the banker with a gleam of danger in the straight staring eyes.

"Now, look here, Mr. Clarke," he said deliberately at last, "we might just as well understand each other now as at any other time. The bonds are beyond your reach, and will remain beyond your reach until they are back in that package in the vault at home, where they belong. Once they are there, my resignation is in. I've worked for you for twenty years. Mr. Clarke, and in that time I've saved a few thousand dollars. I put it into real estate and have turned it over now and then. I'm leaving your bank as soon as this matter of the bonds is adjusted, to become cashier of a new bank in which I own some stock."

He sat down, and for a time they stared, each at the other, with a challenge in their gaze.

"All this is not particularly to the point; but I'm telling it to you to make my position perfectly clear." Mr. Smith went on. "Now we might as well call things by their first names. You stole bonds for which I was personally responsible. Now, don't interrupt! I recovered them to save myself, not you, and once they are placed where they belong I finish with you. It was purely by accident that I discovered this theft, which endangered all my future, and I came all the way to Paris, not only to get the bonds but to give you one sound whaling. I got the bonds, and I've changed my mind about the whaling. I made you lie, as you say, to save me. That's all I have to sav about it. Now you mav go as far as you like."

THERE was a long pause. Mr. Clarke's bony fingers clawed nervously at the sheets while he studied the rugged face of this man before him.

"Smith, you've misunderstood this thing from the jump," he said, not unkindly. "I haven't stolen anything; I have had no intention of stealing. A very attractive proposition by which I could earn three, possibly four, million dollars within a few months was put up to me. I'm worth no more than three hunared thousand dollars,—a pauper as rich men go,— and I've earned every penny of it. It was within my power to increase that fortune enormously. In order to do it, it was necessary for me to put up for only a few weeks a million and a half dollars. If I took in some one else on the proposition, my share would have been trivial, and here in my bank was a million and a half dollars that I could use. I took it, to put the deal through. There's no doubt in the world that I should have been able to return it, and no man would have been the wiser except for the accident, whatever it was, by which you learned the bonds were missing.

''Now, I'm not trying to whitewash myself at all. I violated the laws, because I took money that did not belong to me to make money for myself. You upset all my plans, and it cost me millions. Understand that, millions! That day I saw you at the Café de la Paix I knew intuitively why you were in Paris; so when the bonds disappeared from this room I knew you had them, though how they came into your possession I couldn't figure. I don't know yet. I sent d'Aubigny to you and offered you one hundred thousand dollars to keep your hands off. You are pleased to think that you have saved my business reputation by saving your own; but there was never a moment when my business reputation, or yours, was in danger. That's all I have to say. Your resignation will be accepted."

MR. CLARKE had not raised his voice at all, nor had there come the slightest change in the expression of Mr. Smiths face. It was all as if they were discussing some trivial thing of utter inconsequence.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Clarke, I am honest," remarked Mr. Smith. "I've worked for you for twenty years— you know I'm honest. Being honest, I can't get to your viewpoint, and after all it's of no importance."

He rose. "Any further discussion of this matter between us may lead to unpleasant personalities. Fortunately, it was not permitted to get into the newspapers here, so there is no danger, and I'm sailing for home by the first boat. I'll contrive to place the bonds where they belong, and immediately upon your return I'll tender my resignation formally. So far as I'm concerned, the thing is over. I'm sorry you've been ill, sir, and sincerely hope you'll be in your usual good health soon. I'm going back home— back to Passaic!"

He turned away toward the door. Mr. Clarke proffered a shriveled hand; apparently Mr. Smith didn't see it.

"Smith, I'm sorry," he said simply.

"So am I, Mr. Clarke," was the response. "It means more to me than you understand." He was thinking of Edna. Again he turned away, as if to go.

"And the bonds? " queried Clarke. "Where are they? How did you manage to keep them hidden from the police? Are you carrying them about your person?"

"Oh, the bonds," Mr. Smith said listlessly. "Just at this moment most of them are in charge of the French Government, and the others are in charge of the British Government."

"In charge of the—" began Mr. Clarke, amazed. "How— what—"

"The first thing I did when they came into my possession was to get rid of them," Mr. Smith informed him. "I'd already had one little run-in with the police, as you know, and I felt safer to dispose of them immediately."

"But in charge of the French Government! How do you mean?"

"I knew I couldn't pass the customs inspectors in New York with a million and a half dollars' worth of bonds in my possession without at least attracting attention. They would have had to know who I was, where I got them, and all the rest of it. That would mean questions at the bank, and inevitable discovery of the facts in the case. I knew too that mail matter in the form of letters is never opened; so," Mr. Smith waved his hands depreeatingly, "so I mailed the bonds."

"Mailed them!" There was a note of uneasiness, excitement even, in Mr. Clarke's voice. "Do you mean that you wrapped a million and a half dollars in a package and mailed it? Don't you know that all packages from foreign countries, by mail or otherwise, are opened and examined by customs officials?"

"I didn't mail them in a package," Mr. Smith explained. "I addressed some seventy or eighty envelopes, of different sizes and colors and shapes, put one or two or three of the bonds in each, and mailed them that way."

"All to the same man? That's just as bad."

"They were not all addressed to the same man. I sent some of them to John Smith in Passaic, and some to Tom Jones in London, and some to Jack Robinson in Southampton, and Bill Spiwins in Brooklyn, and Pete Brown in Jersey City, and somebody else in New York and Hoboken and Weehawken, all over the shop, each by a different name, to be held till called for. It will take sometime to get them together again, and I'll have to go by Southampton and London to remail those that are waiting for me there. I thought it was a pretty good scheme." He was silent a moment. "These funny little fly cops over here would never get hep in the world. While they were searching me down at headquarters there were two or three of the envelops containing bonds in the mailbox directly in front of the door."

For a time Mr. Clarke, lost in admiration of the utter simplicity, the audacity of the idea, said nothing. "There is still danger, of course," he remarked finally. "However, it is safer that way than taking them in through customs." There was one other question. "Smith, how did you get hold of those bonds anyhow?"

"Don't you know?" Mr. Smith queried.

"No, I haven't an idea, unless the trained nurse—"

"Well, if you don't know, I'll never tell you," replied Mr. Smith.

xvii

MR. SMITH was not the kind of man who would ask a woman if she would marry him— he'd tell her she was going to. He told Edna Clarke, between the soup and the fish, in a cozy little dining room off Montmartre— Aunt Emma was at home— the night before he was to leave Paris. They had been talking about the w'eather. He didn't introduce the subject of matrimony; just spilled it out. There were exclamations of surprise, blushes, embarrassment, and protestations. Mr. Smith waved them aside in that masterful way of his.

"My train leaves in the morning about ten o'clock," he said. "I'll run by and see your father about nine. I'm not very strong with him, and I imagine he may— he may—"

That old troubled, haunted look dashed in the girl's eyes for a second. There was still the possibility that all the desperate chances they had taken would come to naught, that open dishonor would come, that her father would be—

"I'm sorry, Miss Edna," Mr. Smith said simply. "I didn't mean to— er— everything is coming out all right. So long as none of it became public at the time of my arrest, and now I'm free, everything is all right. Nothing can go wrong."

"Of course I know it," she faltered; "but —but— the bare thought of it frightens me. I know, you've made me sec that my father isn't a— a thief, as I thought at first; but there is still a chance of discovery, and if it came—"

"It won't come," interrupted Mr. Smith. "Do you remember you once told me that you had more confidence in me than any person you ever met? Now prove it by believing me. There's no earthly way by which the customs people in New York can find those bonds, and, as for the police of Paris, I've got them euchred to a standstill. Now that's all over. Let's not talk about it. As I said. I'll see your father in the morning about nine, and then—"

Edna arched her brows disdainfully. "It's perfectly absurd!" she declared irrelevantly. "Such a result of our chance meeting never occurred to me. I'd never even thought of it."

"Oh, well, you'll have lots of time to think of it before you get back home," Mr. Smith informed her easily. "After that—"

"But we hardly know each other— just a couple of weeks! Think of it!"

"Two weeks and three days," Mr. Smith amended. " I may say, without boasting, that we've known each other pretty well during that time."

EDNA recalled that instant when she had returned to consciousness to find herself being carried, as a child, in the powerful arms of this man, and the memory brought roses to her cheeks. Her clear blue eyes flickered for an instant, then grew suddenly grave. "It's been splendid of you, Mr. Smith, all of it," she said at last, seriously. "You have tried to make it appear that it was all done for your own sake; but—but somehow I don't quite believe it. I believe yet there was something deeper behind what you've done. I believe—" She paused.

"You were very fond of my father once, weren't you?"

"He made me what I am. I am grateful, yes."

"But something more than that?" she insisted. "I know from the way he speaks of you that—"

Mr. Smith laid two hands upon her own. "Never mind all that," he said quietly. "You seem to think I have done something wonderful. It is within your power to repay me. Will you?"

Edna didn't move her hand; merely faced him without a word. If there had been any doubt in his mind it was dissipated by the misty light that grew in her eyes, by the happy curl of her lips.

"Once I promised to repay you, if it was ever within my power," she said gently.

"Then I may see your father in the morning before I go?"

After a long time the girl nodded. One of her hands still lay a prisoner beneath his own.

"Isn't it wonderful." she said dreamily after a moment, "how our lives have become so entangled, each with the other? Almost from the first I saw you aboard ship I knew it would be so. I don't know why—I only knew. I understood, too, perfectly. what I must do, and I made my father do it."

"Those handcuffs! You know that reminds me of something I want to do before I leave Paris. I want to look up the Marquis and slap all the wrinkles out of his face. I think that's legal."

"No!" exclaimed the girl, alarmed.

"There's too much at stake. It might mean arrest again, and—"

"I'm not going to do it." Mr. Smith assured her. "It took your father and a half dozen of his banker friends and the American Ambassador to get me loose last time. When they found there were no bonds, they wanted to hold me for smashing Remi in the nose." He paused. " I wouldn't take chances again. These detectives in Paris would like a reasonable excuse to send me up for about a hundred years."

FROM the mottled front of the Gare du Nord, in the growing gloom of dusk, Mr. Smith took his last look at Paris, the wonder city of the world; truly a wonder city, for was not Edna Clarke there, Edna Clarke, whose promise, sanctioned by her father, he held? For a long time he stood meditatively, then:

"I love my Paris," he said slowly; "but oh, you Passaic!"

_______________________

10: The Stone Cat

Miles J. Breuer, M.D.

1889-1945

Amazing Stories Sept 1927

INVESTIGATION showed that I was the last person to see young Brian before his sudden and mysterious disappearance. I saw him on the day that my remarkable friend, Doctor Fleckinger showed the two of us the stone cat. We found the doctor working in his laboratory, a big, airy room with the sunlight gleaming brightly on the myriad things of glass and polished metal. As usual, Miss Lila was there, busy at some of the doctor’s scientific tasks.

Brian had eyes only for the demure young lady in the white apron and rolled-up sleeves. As we came in, she looked up and saw him, and nodded her head to him with a smile in her deep, dark eyes. Brian wished the doctor good morning, and then went over to where she sat cutting sections on a microtome, handling the gossamer-like paraffin ribbons with a consummately delicate touch. I walked over to the other side of the room where the doctor was working with some Petri dishes and a microscope, and exchanged greetings with him.

Dr. Fleckinger went on with his work, and such was his concentration that in a few moments he had forgotten about me. He was pouring a black liquid on some lumps of flesh in the Petri dishes and watching them blacken and crinkle; and then he teased out pieces to examine under the microscope. For a while he gazed abstractedly at his notebook. Then came the uncouth thing that makes me shiver when I think of it. Suddenly he jerked up his cuff and bared his arm, and poured some of the greenish-black stuff on one spot. The effect was hideous. The flesh blackened and shriveled, and his arm shuddered. He regarded it for a while; then, seizing a scalpel, he passed it quickly through a flame, and with one sweep cut off the blackened skin and flesh. He put on a compress-dressing to stop the bleeding, and went on unconcernedly with his work, totally oblivious of me standing there and shuddering.

That was the kind of man he was. I was afraid of him. The friendship that I continued with him was one of those things that we do against the protests of our better judgment. I envied him his comfortable wealth, his astonishing intellect, and his beautiful daughter; for I had to work hard for a living with just a mediocre equipment of brains, and all I had to love and worry about was a nephew who could take better care of himself than I could. I enjoyed Dr. Fleckinger's society during his amiable intervals, and delighted in his wonderful private collection of marble and bronze statuary. But, at other times I was uncomfortable in his society. Though I was his oldest and best friend, I had a feeling that he would cut me in pieces did the conditions of an experiment demand it, with the same unfeeling precision with which he had whirled guinea-pigs in a centrifuge during our college days, to determine the effect on the circulation.

Miss Lila and Brian were so interested in some mutual matter that they had not noticed the uncanny performance. In a quarter of an hour the doctor seemed to have come to a stopping place in his work, for he put it aside and entertained me so pleasantly that I forgot and forgave his previous abstraction. It was when Brian and I were taking our departure that hs showed us the stone cat. It was on a low pillar, in a room with a lot of small sculptured figures. I did not look at it much, yet it stuck in my memory, and sticks there yet, haunting me when I try to think of pleasanter things. It was natural size, of some black stone, and was no doubt an admirable piece of sculptural art, with its arched back, straight tail, and angry appearance.

But I didn’t like it. Brian hardly noticed it, but Miss Lila stood on the stairs and shuddered. The three year old girl of Dr. Fleckinger’s housekeeper was toddling around the room after her mother who was dusting the statuary; and seeing us looking at the cat, came over to join us in her small, sociable way. Spying the cat, she stopped suddenly, looked at it a moment, and let out a wail of lamentation. She continued to weep piteously until she was carried out, crying something about her “kitty.” As I went out, I wondered why the stone figure of a cat should make me feel so creepy and cause Miss Lila to shudder, and the child to cry.

Brian and I parted at the corner of the block, and that was the last time anybody saw him. He was missed from his office and his rooms, and the places he usually frequented. His affairs hung in suspense; a case which he was to try the following day had to be put off, and in the evening an opera party with whom he and Miss Lila had engaged a box, waited for him in vain. The newspapers blazed out in big headlines about the utter and untraceable disappearance of the prominent young lawyer.

I had never taken any particular interest in him. That was to come now, for the responsibility of investigating his case would devolve on my department. One thing about him, perhaps held my attention, and that of many others: he was the successful suitor of Dr. Fleckinger’s daughter, Lila. The list of young men who had unsuccessfully aspired for this honor was large, and my own nephew, Richard, was among them. It was pretty generally known that it was the doctor himself who stood in the way; he made it so uncomfortable for the young fellows who tried to get acquainted with the girl that they desisted. Richard, who was pretty hard hit, and spent a good many despondent months after his defeat, told me that the “selfish old devil cared less about his daughter’s future than he did about his own whims.” So, when young Brian, by his persistence and his gracious ways, continued not only in the favor of the young lady, but also in the good graces of her eccentric father, there was a good deal of speculation as to why he, particularly, had been selected.

My nephew, Richard, who is a sergeant in my department of the detective bureau, came to me and asked me to assign him specially to the investigation of Brian’s disappearance. I did so gladly, for I had to admit that he was clever, even if most of the time it was difficult for me to believe that the golden-haired lad was really grown up.

“I am looking up Brian’s contacts,” he reported. “His own record is an easy job; his life is an open book. Miss Fleckinger I know pretty well myself. But, her father seems to be a sort of mystery. You know him intimately. Tell me about him.” His brows were dark with angry suspicion.

“Well,” I mused; “he and I went to school together. We were drawn together and apart from others by a common streak of intellect, a sort of analytical and investigative faculty that would give us no rest. Out of me, it made a detective, out of him a research scientist. He inherited enough money to make that possible. He keeps to himself, and does not even publish the results of very much of his work. What he is working on, is as profound a riddle to the rest of the scientific world as the secret of the Sphinx. However, I can make my surmises, if he does things like those he used to do. I remember once that he blew a steam whistle for ten days close to a rabbit’s ear, and then killed it and made microscopic sections to see the effects on the nerves of hearing.”

Richard shut his teeth with a click and said nothing.

“I saw the doctor this afternoon,” I continued. “He takes a queer attitude toward this affair. His daughter is all broken up about it, but he acts as though he were relieved. He remarked something to the effect that he was glad that he wouldn’t lose his daughter after all. Then he had the nerve i ask me if I wouldn’t come in to see a new statue which had just arrived. He was all enthused about the statue, and I left in disgust.”

“He’s a smooth brute,” Richard said.

WE worked hard on the case. I saw him seldom, but when I did, I noted that he was losing weight and growing haggard. He was taking it seriously, because he had not lost his old affection for Miss Lila, who was so intimately connected with the case. Perhaps his motive was to make her happy, even though he knew he had to give her up to his rival if he ever succeeded in finding Brian; or perhaps some deeper suspicion drove him on through those long, discouraging weeks. A number of other good men on the force spent a great deal of effort in going over the problem; but no light was shed on Brian’s disappearance.

Then one day a young Frenchman was admitted to my office.

“I would wish that you speak French,” he said politely.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“You desire to know where is the Monsieur Brian?” he asked, speaking slowly, and finding each word with evident effort.

“There’s a big reward out, and it’s yours if you tell us,” I said shortly.

“I have hopes, uncle, old dear,” he said, with an astonishing change in voice and manner, breaking out into Richard’s well known grin. With a hat on and a change in expression, it was really Richard.

“You old rascal!” I shouted. “You certainly fooled me!”

“It wasn’t easy, uncle, I dye the hair and mustache twice a week, and practice French all night. But, it has fooled all my friends. Well, I need it. I am Dr. Fleckinger’s laboratory assistant now, and we talk French most of the time. You can see that I’ve learned something about him, because you all thought he was German. Now I am cataloguing his collection of sculptures, too.”

“You’re actually in that house?” I demanded in alarm. Some nameless fear for the boy’s safety possessed me. Yet, my reason could not tell me what I feared.

“I’m learning all the time,” he replied jocularly. Then he gritted his teeth and his face took on a grim look. “Uncle, someone’s got to take Lila out of that devil’s clutches. Of course he’s her father, but—”

“What’s the matter?”

“She’s wasting away unde, my very eyes. Every day she is thinner. She goes about and trembles at every shadow; and every now and then bursts into a fit of weeping without any provocation. Something is driving her distracted, and I can see the terrible effort she makes to conceal it. It isn’t sorrow that I see in her face; it’s horror!”

“What has that to do with Brian’s disappearance?”

“I don’t know. In order to find out, I’ve been trying to learn from Lila and the servants what his motive is for refusing to let her have suitors. Apparently there is no real reason for it ; it is rather a monomania, a form of insanity on his part.”

“One would think you suspected him of having made away with Brian,” I hinted.

“Easy to conjecture, hard to prove,” he answered enigmatically. “But if you want to see the wind-up, wait until I run a couple of errands, and I’ll take you along with me. I think I’ve figured the thing out.”

You could have knocked me over with a feather. Here was a man’s job worked out by this boy who still seemed a child to me. He came for me at seven o’clock, carrying some packages. Unwrapping them, he slipped a photograph into an inside pocket, and a couple of live frogs into the pocket of his coat. I stared in astonishment.

“Take your thirty-two automatic along,” he suggested. I patted the pocket where it reposed.

We drove to Fleckinger’s house in a car with three officers from the station, and stopped at some distance from the house. We walked separately into the yard, and Richard signalled to the officers to wait outside. I was surprised to see him pull out a latchkey and open the door, until I remembered that he was a member of the household.

On the stair-landing in the lower hall stood a statue. Richard pointed to it.

“The one you were invited to see and refused,” he commented. “Oh, he’s a cool customer!”

He switched on the light in front of it, and asked me to regard it closely. It was of some dull, black, rough material, and represented a young man, almost nude, seated, with his chin leaning against one hand in deep meditation. The face was suggestive of profound concentration like that of a hypnotized man. The statue looked a little larger than life-size. It was set back in a niche so that the light fell on it obliquely, heightening the furrowed effect of the face. There was something about the appearance of it that I did not like, as it stood there with the shadows of the balusters falling on it. It gave me the same sort of creeps that the stone cat had imparted.

“It is really exactly life-size,” Richard informed me. “I have measured it.”

I gave him an impatient glare, for I did not see what that had to do with Brian’s disappearance.

“Then,” he continued, “look at the features closely!” And he jerked the photograph out of his pocket and held it before me. It was a portrait of Brian, done very dark by the photographer; a duplicate of which I had at the office.

I looked from the picture to the face of the statue and back again, and an icy chill shot through me. But, Richard started suddenly, for the bobbing figure of Doctor Fleckinger appeared at the head of the stairs above us. Obviously that was not on the program.

“Put it away,” he whispered. Then he went on slowly and loudly: “He is in the laboratoire. I am certain it will make him much pleasure if you come above— ah, there is Monsieur the doctor now.”

Doctor Fleckinger came down and greeted me pleasantly, and shook my hand. My head hummed and whirled; I could scarcely gather my senses enough to answer the platitudes addressed to me as we walked upstairs at the doctor’s invitation to the laboratory, where he usually received me.

UP in the laboratory we began a rather lame conversation, and the incongruity of the situation jarred my nerves. The doctor knew that something suspicious was up, and did not trust me. I knew that his cordiality was feigned, and yet I was cordial in response. If I had known Richard’s plans, I might

have known what to do. The electric light was reflected in a million spots from the glass and polished metal; pieces of apparatus assumed strange shapes, and grotesque shadows stretched dizzily off into corners and dark places.

At the far end of the room, the black depths of a recess yawned at us, with a curtain stretched partly across it. Near it, Richard was busy at a sink in the corner. He paused and stood in front of a window to light a cigarette, and the action had all the appearance of being a preconcerted signal to the policemen below. His face was set, and I knew he was thinking hard. Apparently his plans had been somewhat interfered with by the doctor’s unexpected presence.

I also thought hard, as I talked with the doctor, wondering how I could help Richard. Finally, it occurred to me that his inviting me along must have been an afterthought. Evidently he had planned things to carry out alone. Therefore, if I left he would have a clear field. I dreaded to do so, for now I was sure that some danger lurked in wait for him. But, duty is duty. I suggested that I had dropped in for a moment, and had to be moving on. I read approval in Richard’s eyes.

As Doctor Fleckinger turned his back for a moment to go to the door with me, Richard darted to the curtain across the black recess and dipped out a ladle-ful of something from behind it. I could see him fish a frog out of his pocket and drop it into the ladle. Then he set the whole into the sink, at the same time that I walked out into the hall. I did not go away, however; I dodged behind the door, and watched through the crack.

The doctor whirled suddenly about and walked with a queer, tense swiftness toward the curtained recess. He crossed the room and reached it before I realized what he was about; and with the suddenness of a wildcat he leaped upon Richard, caught him around the body, and lifted him off his feet. He began to shove the body into the darkness of the recess.

What fiendish fate awaited him there, I could only gather from the scream of dismay that broke from Richard’s throat. The lad had been taken completely by surprise, and was helpless. His face was ghastly white, and paralyzed with terror. I stood rooted to the spot for a valuable moment, trying to realize what was happening, and then started toward them.

Suddenly, a piercing scream broke upon my ears, and turning around, I saw Miss Lila’s pale figure for an instant in the doorway. Then she fell backwards in a faint. This startled the doctor only a little, but enough to enable Richard to get a hold and make the game a little less one-sided. For another moment I watched, and then my mind was at rest concerning the outcome, for the doctor’s sedentary muscles were no match for Richard’s splendid training. While I stood there, with Miss Lila’s unconscious form lying in the doorway, and the two men locked in reeling, swaying embrace at the end of the room, there was a hurried trampling on the stairs, and the officers who had been waiting below, swarmed into the room.

They stopped an instant in surprise. Then, as one of them picked up Miss Lila and carried her to a sofa, the others hurried toward the combatants in front of the curtained recess. For a moment my heart jumped into my mouth, and I thought they would be too late. In some way the doctor had gained an advantage and was pushing Richard behind the curtain. Again a cry broke from Richard’s throat, something between a gulp and a shout of “Help!” Then Richard made a mighty effort and with a clever twist, had hurled the doctor bodily into the shadow behind the curtain. As the doctor’s wriggling body suddenly grew limp. Richard jumped quickly backwards, and as I approached on the run, I heard a splash, and saw drops of a thick, foul-smelling liquid spatter out from the gloom. Richard looked hurriedly at us and himself, to see if anyone had been touched.

He was trembling as though from the ague, and his breath came in gasps.

“It was a barbarous thing to do,” he panted. “But I had to do it, or I would be there myself where Brian is now.”

We approached the curtain.

“Stay away from the vat!” Richard commanded anxiously. “The stuff may do you harm. I don’t know just how to handle it. If you want to know what has happened, look here!”

He stepped to the sink and poured out the ladleful of black, heavy liquid. The frog tumbled out into the sink, and Richard pushed it under a stream of water from the tap. Washing it thoroughly, he handed it to me.

“You saw me put it in alive?” he asked significantly.

Now it was hard as stone, and heavy petrified.

It looked for all the world like the little stone frogs in the Pompeiian collection at the Metropolitan Museum.

Richard explained.

“The first thing that struck my attention,” he began, “was the sorrow of the housekeeper’s child for her missing cat. The baby recognized the figure on the pedestal, where our acquired conventional associations of statuary put us off the track. Then, gradually, the fearful resemblance of the statue in the lower hall to the missing lawyer, broke upon me.”

His face took on a hard look as he turned toward the vat behind the curtain.

“He ought to be set up in some museum,” he said grimly. “But, for God’s sake, don’t make it too sudden for Lila!”

__________________

11: Millions for Defense

Miles J. Breuer, M.D.

Amazing Stories, March 1935

"IT'S about time you quit fooling around and got down to some real work. You've been tinkering long enough."

The coarse, red face of Jake Bloor spread into an unsympathetic leer, and he grunted contemptuously. "I promised your mother I'd put you through school," he continued. "Now I'm through with that, and a big bunch of boloney I call it."

That was the welcome that awaited John Stengel after graduation from college, upon his arrival at the only home he had, that of his uncle, who was a banker in the small country village of Centerville.

"Yes, sir," replied John, biting his lips.

His uncle screwed his lips into ugly rolls around his cigar, and then took it out and spat on the floor.

"This job I'm giving you in my bank," he went on, "is not a part of my promise to your mother. That comes out of the kindness of my heart."

That mind can and does triumph over matter was demonstrated again by the fact that John did not turn on his heel and walk out of the house, never to return. John Stengel, known to his fellow-students for four years as Steinmetz Stengel, stood five burly inches above his stocky uncle; his blue eyes blazed a resentment that was everywhere else concealed by his quiet and respectful bearing. The powerful arm that bent to run his big hand through his yellow hair, could have knocked his corpulent uncle off his feet, but it dropped quietly at his side, and he again said:

"Yes, sir!"

For, graduation is a bewildering experience. The world is wide, and one is not sure just which way to turn. A fifteen-dollar a week job as a clerk in a country bank was nevertheless a discouraging jolt to the rosy aspirations that flowered at this time of the year, quite as brilliantly as did the roses; for behind him were four splendid years of distinguished achievement as a scientific student.

However, just now there seemed no way around it. The offer of this job from his uncle had come several weeks before. Jake Bloor had not presented it kindly nor gracefully; he had rubbed it in with patriarchial magnanimity, and with conspicuous contempt for John's scientific training, which he had permitted only because of his promise to his dead sister, when she had placed the child John in his hands. During the weeks between his uncle's offer and the date of graduation, John had thought hard and tried everything. Especially he had discussed the problem with his fellow-students and his instructors.

He had nothing else to fall back on. His parents had died when he was a child and left him nothing but the ill-natured promise of a grumpy uncle. He had tried in vain to get a position of any sort ; but the country was in the grip of the most severe financial depression of the century. No positions were available anywhere. His failure to locate anything in the way of a livelihood, after several months of correspondence during his last year of school, was not surprising, with ten millions of unemployed in the nation. The bank-clerk job, even though it was offered largely as an insult to John's scientific training, seemed like a straw to a drowning man. It had occurred to John that Jake Bloor was prosperous even while other country banks were failing

"YOUR uncle seems to be a good business man, and it will do you no harm to learn something about business," one of his student friends said to him.

"Keep up some scientific reading," the Dean of the Engineering Department said to him, "but by all means take the job. Keep your laboratory hand in practice somehow."

The Dean was much interested in John's future, and consulted with John at length about the matter.

"You will get there in the long run," the Dean said; "but do not permit yourself to become stagnant."

The suggestion of John's roommate, who was as brilliant and clever an engineer as John himself, seemed to offer the most promise of interest.

"These country banks simply invite robbery," Bates had said. "Perfectly simple to walk in and help yourself—"

"You mean that I ought to rig up some stuff to protect the shack in case of robbery? Good idea!" John was interested.

"Easy enough, wouldn't it be? And a good way to amuse yourself."

"And Hansie, dear," Dorothy had said to him, "I know you can do something great no matter where you go. This is only temporary, and we'll be patient, and some day we shall have that home together."

Dorothy was at the same time the Light of the World, and the hardest problem of John's life. They had decided that they could not live without each other; and yet here they were, finding it impossible to live together. But, as Dorothy held on to his arm, walking with him across the campus in the moonlight, and held her soft, brown head close to his and gazed at him with limpid, sympathetic eyes, John felt that he could and must accomplish anything in the world for this wonderful girl that a kind Providence had given him.

Centerville was certainly a drab and dismal place, after the glitter of life on the campus, whose great, picturesque buildings had thrilling things going on in them. Here there were half a dozen tiny business buildings strung out along two sides of the dusty highway, and a score or so of cottage residences scattered about, and beyond those, monotonous prairie in all directions.

There were two general stores; the one in the brick building was carelessly run and had a poor stock; the other was better arranged and more ambitious, but its wooden, gable-roofed shack looked almost ready to collapse in upon it. The garage was the busiest and most systematic-looking place in the neighborhood. Two "caffis" (in reality soft-drink parlors), one ragged and catering to coarsely dressed men, one somewhat cleaner and filled at noon with high-school students; a hardware store with dirty windows and a heap of nondescript junk within them covered with the undisturbed dust of years; a drug-store with its window full of patent-medicine and cosmetic posters mottled by fading, all gave John an indescribably dreary feeling of lostness and futility. The traffic that slipped down the highway all day, and the color and activity of the two filling stations, Standard Oil at one end and Conoco at the other, did but little to relieve him.

The bank itself made John think of the little toy banks that children play with; and when he first set eyes on it he was sure that it must have a slot in the top to drop nickels in. It was square, somewhat larger than a garage, with white-painted drop-siding and a flat roof. Within, it had iron bars across the windows, a single room divided in two by a counter with a rusty iron grill, a big iron safe set on wheels. The floor was unpainted and splintery; the ink in the bottle on the sloping-topped table at the door, was dry and caked, and the pad of deposit slips upon it was yellow and curled with age. Hardly anyone passed along the little street all day, and only rarely stepped into the bank itself. Between two and three in the afternoon there were a few merchants; Saturday evenings there might be three or four farmers in the bank all at once.

JOHN smiled when he first saw the place. Providing there were anything to take, it would be the simplest and easiest of tasks for the modern bank-robber to clean the place out and get away. It certainly looked as though there might be something to take. His uncle Jake Bloor's huge, sprawling, white house brooded over the village like some coarse temple; and his big, throbbing cars glittered back and forth from the city, boasting insolently of money. It seemed especially insolent to John, because he knew there were countless unemployed who did not know where their next meal was coming from, and countless others who were ground almost flat to the earth by debts and losses at this particular time, while his uncle lorded it about without a care in the world nor a thought for others. It did not seem fair that this crude, heartless man, who had never done the world any material service, but had only selfishly pinched off for himself generous portions of the world's money which he had handled, should be rolling in safety and luxury, at a time when men who had invented and built and taught and organized were being faced with grim want. Things weren't right in the world.

John was young and human. We cannot blame him, therefore, for the fact that when he did eventually get to work to devise some scientific means for preventing a robbery of the bank, that his motive did not consist of any overwhelming loyalty to his uncle's bank. He did it merely because he took pleasure in the creation of something that would operate. The abstract idea in the mind, when the concrete working out of it does things that can be seen and felt— that is the thrill of the creative spirit. John loved Iris figures and his drawings; he loved the coils and the storage batteries, the clicking little gears and the quick little switches that tickled and made swift little movements of their own accord, as though they were living and intelligent things.

For many long, luxurious weeks he did nothing; it was a delight to be merely a sort of vegetable; to rest from the rush of the last weeks in school; to shed completely, if temporarily, the strain of looking into the future. His mind hibernated during that time, and lay fallow; for it required no effort to discharge his simple duties as clerk at the bank ; and life in Centerville was an excellent anesthetic. His body made up what it had missed in exercise by long walks down the highway and along the railroad tracks. Long letters to and from Dorothy punctuated the soothing monotony, and the thrill they gave him was all the excitement he wanted. They must have been good letters, as we might have judged could we have but seen him slip off into solitude on the first opportunity after their arrival, his face breaking out in delightful smiles— only no one saw him.

Finally, one day in the fall, after the heat of the summer was out of his bones, he began to get ambitious. First he put a coat of bronze paint on the rusty window-bars and on the grill-work of the counter.

"Looks like a new place in here," said old Larson, the town constable, who was the first one to come in and see it.

John smiled.

"I believe my sixty cents' worth of paint will boost the confidence of the bank's depositors thousands of dollars," he bantered.

Jake Bloor guffawed when he came in and saw it.

"All right!" he sneered. "If you want to waste your pennies that way in this dump. But I think you're a damned fool!"

This was not very encouraging, thought John, for broaching the idea of installing some equipment for protection against robbery. He decided to say nothing about it for the present, and await a better chance.

A week dragged out its length after that, and John began to get restless. The autumn coolness was beginning to be stimulating and after his most excellent rest, John wanted to be up and doing something, using his hands and his brain. The matter of devising some protection against robbery in the bank was constantly on his mind. He turned over in his head various projects. He watched his uncle, constantly hoping for a chance to mention the matter.

THEN one morning the city daily came in with two-column heads about the robbing of the bank at Athens, forty miles away. Three masked men had walked into the bank in the middle of the forenoon; one had forced the clerk to hold up his hands at the muzzle of a pistol, while the others had cleaned out the safe, gotten into a car, and disappeared. Eighty thousand dollars worth of cash and negotiable securities had vanished. No trace of any kind could be found of the robbers.

"I could rig up some stuff to prevent that sort of thing in your bank," John said, forcing his voice into a casual tone over his pancakes.

"Prevent what?" growled his uncle.

"Your bank being robbed, like the one at Athens," John said.

"Oh!" and a couple of grunts from the uncle.

"Doesn't it worry you? It might happen to us, you know." John was showing anxiety in his voice— whether for the fate of his uncle's bank or in his eagerness to be at some technical work, again, he could not tell.

"Oh, I suppose." And Jake Bloor went on reading.

"Do you mind if I fix up some apparatus to protect you?"

"All a bunch of humbug!" Jake Bloor exclaimed impatiently, gnawing at his cigar. "The swindlers are always after me with the stuff. They want to sell something, that's all."

"No. I don't mean for you to buy anything," John urged. "I'll make it myself."

His uncle roared derisively.

"That would cost more than ever!"

"It wouldn't cost you a cent!" John explained, holding down his anger with difficulty. After a moment's silence he regained his control.

"If you don't mind," he continued, "I'll fix it up for you at no expense to yourself."

"You're a damn fool!" Jake Bloor sneered. "But go ahead and have your fun. Only look out and don't do any damage. That's all I care about."

He got up and walked out of the house. In the door he stopped and snorted back at John:

"And don't kid yourself too much. Those fellahs are on to these tricks. Before you could kick off your alarm they would have you shot. Better take care of your hide."

John thought it over as he walked to the bank that morning.

"If he invites robbery, I ought to let him be robbed," he thought. "But, if he should be robbed, as it is probable that he will be, his bank being the richest as well as the most rickety for a long distance around, where would my job be? And, as four months writing of applications all over the country hasn't got me an answer, where would I be without a job? Seems that it is up to me to protect the bank whether he wants it or not."

Then his mind turned to the technical parts of the problem and began to run quickly about among them.

"I believe he is right, too," he thought, "about kicking off an alarm under the counter. That is an old dodge, and the robbers are probably ready for it.

There must be a way around that."

For a solid month John was happy. He was the same old Steinmetz Stengle, whom his feltow-students gibed at, and at the same time loved so well, going about in an abstracted gaze, studying some complex problem in his head, or spending every spare moment of the day and many hours at night with the slide-rule and drawing-instruments, and with tools and materials, giving some astonishing child of his brain the outward concrete form that was necessary to make it a visible and functioning thing among men. Packages in corrugated paper and wooden boxes arrived for him at the little railway station; and there were a few automobile trips to the city.

When the thing was finished, it differed vastly from the usual burglary protection equipment. Nevertheless it was quite simple. The keynote of it was a row of photo-electric cells just above his head, which received daylight from the window behind him, and permitted a steady flow of current from a storage battery, whose charge was maintained by a trickle charger from the lighting current. This storage-battery current held down a relay armature. Anything that cut off the light from the photo-electric cells would shut off the storage-battery current, release the relay, and set off the works.

WHEN he had gotten it made thus far, he tried it out several times by raising his hands above his head while he stood at his window, as though he were facing a bank's customer.

"Hands up!" his imagination supplied the robber's command.

His hands went up; there was a click, and the three one-quarter-horse-power motors began to whirr.

The usual device in the country bank is a big alarm bell on the outside of the building. This had been a conspicuous failure in a number of recent robberies in the neighborhood. Those who were summoned by the alarm came too late or did not have nerve enough to interfere. In one case the accomplices on the outside had found it a convenient warning to help them get away, and in another they had held all the arrivals at bay, and made a good getaway with the booty. John discarded the idea of the alarm bell to awaken the village, and looked for an improvement on it.

A drum of tear-gas supplied the solution. One of the motors operated by the relay was so arranged as to shoot a blast of tear-gas right across the public side of the bank room, just where the hold-up men would be standing. A telephone-pair to the city fourteen miles away, rented at two dollars a month, comprised the next step; over these wires he arranged for an automatic signal in the sheriff's office, which would announce that the bank was being robbed, just as soon as the storage-battery current was cut off by the raised hands in front of the photo-electric cells.

A second motor set off by the relay, located in a box under the building, closed the outside door and shot an iron bar across it to keep it closed. John also reinforced this street door by screwing to it a latticework of iron straps and painting them neatly.

He felt highly thrilled the evening that he gave the apparatus its first trial. He tried it after dark, and therefore had to put a strong electric-light bulb into the street window to replace day-light, and instead of tear-gas he used a drum of compressed air. He rehearsed the whole scene in his mind: the door burst open by masked men, the pistol stuck in his face, and demand: "Hands up!" He put his hands up in as natural a manner as possible, and his delight knew no bounds to hear the relay click, so softly that no one not looking for it could possibly have caught it; he was even moderately startled at the sudden loud hiss of escaping air, and the street door slammed shut in a ghostly manner. He walked around in front of his window in the latticework on the counter, and felt the compressed air from the tank still blowing right across the place where the imagined robber was standing.

That ought to have been enough. It was amply sufficient to take care of any robbery that might have been staged. But John had a third motor at hand and some vague idea in his head. There was still something lacking, though he could not quite put his finger on the lack. For several days he was uneasy with the half-emerging thought that there was still something that he ought to add to this. But, try as he might, nothing further occurred to him. The arrangement, as he had it, seemed to be enough, and that was all he could think of.

He therefore demonstrated it to his uncle one evening. Jake Bloor said nothing, which was unusual for him. He was rarely silent. It may have meant that he was impressed; it may not. He did manage to keep the contemptuous look on his heavy red face. But he walked out without having said a word. The next morning he threw the newspaper sneeringly across the table at John, who was eating with his head bent down, thinking of Dorothy. John glanced at the captions announcing that another bank had been robbed, and that the bank clerk, who had been in league with the robbers, had handed out the booty and was also under arrest.

"Good idea!" drawled Jake through his nose. "Combine that with your plan. Load up the robbers nicely and then turn on your tricks. With a gas mask you can take the swag off them and hide it before the police come "

JOHN heard no more. His mind was busy again. He saw the danger to himself. And, as never before, he observed the paltry meanness of his uncle's character. There was some deep sublety in Jake Boor's sarcastic persecution of the earnest, ambitious boy, which John could not comprehend. That Jake hated John seemed to be clear. But why? And why had he gotten him there apparently at his mercy for the purpose of getting him into trouble? The only thing that John had to go on was that his uncle's old, patriarchial conception of the "honor" of the family had been hurt when John's mother had run off and married a poor but clever mechanic. That was in the eyes of all her relatives a mortal sin, not even possible of expiation by her unoffending son.

But, John's mind ran more to mechanisms than to the tangled personal relationships of the family. A few days of hard thinking convinced him that there was only one way to protect himself, and that was to include himself in the field of the tear-gas. He would have to take his medicine at the same instant as did the rest of them. One October afternoon, out on one of his walks, he strode down the highway into the dusty sunset, and ahead of him a farmer was raising a tremendous dust in a field, getting together, with a horse hay rake, a lot of old weeds for burning. As the farmer moved his lever and pulled his lines, the row of curved steel tines beneath him poised and waited, and then pounced upon their prey, and John got an idea. He thought of a use for his third motor.

He was soon busy again in his improvised workshop, putting together two affairs that resembled big hayrakes, each as tall as a man; but the tines were of rigid steel, and when they closed toward each other, they could grip a man as tightly as a huge steel claw, and hold him immovable. He installed these, one on each side of his teller's window at the counter, with the motor under the floor so arranged that it could rotate them against each other and slip them past a catch which would lock them firmly together. When the photo-electric relay went off, anyone standing in front of the window would be raked in, clutched, and held in a steel fist, six feet tall. Yet, when these claws were turned back out of the way, painted with bronze paint, they mingled with the bronzed grillwork of the counter, and were hardly noticeable.

For some time Jake Bloor had been talking of taking a trip West for a several weeks' stay. There was no mention of the purpose of the trip, and it was discussed in a sort of secretive way, causing John to half suspect that his uncle might be bound on a bootlegging expedition. But he cast it out of his mind, considering that it was none of his business. He was too worried anyway, to think of that, by Jake's stern admonitions about bank affairs.

John was thoroughly frightened for Jake Bloor held him closely responsible for the veriest trifles as well as for the largest affairs, and yet had not properly inducted him into an adequate knowledge of the bank's affairs. It was an unfair position for John, and he felt like a blindfolded man walking a tightrope across a chasm; he was just trusting to luck that nothing went wrong before his uncle returned.

"Don't pass up any good loans," his uncle growled at the breakfast table on the day of his departure. "But, if I find any rotten paper in the vault when I get back, I'll wring your neck."

John said nothing, but was determined in his mind to loan nothing, and sit tight waiting for his uncle's return; for he could not tell good paper from bad. His business was engineering.

"I'll stop at the bank yet before I leave," Jake said, with an air of thrusting a disgusting morsel down an unwilling throat.

About the middle of the forenoon, the loneliest time of the day, John heard his uncle's car drive up in front of the bank. He could see suitcases strapped to the rear of it. Two men walked into the bank along with Jake, one of them carrying a large suitcase.

Jake Bloor drew a big pistol and levelled it at John with a sneer.

"Well, let's see how your plaything works," he said in a hard, ironic voice.

John protested vigorously, "Tear gas is no fun "

"Do you suppose I really want a dose of it?" his uncle roared. "Don't you dare put up your hands. Keep them on the table where I can see them. No kid tricks, either!"

His grim harshness now alarmed John.

"I'm more afraid of that big pistol than of the gas," John protested again. His voice stuck in his throat, and lights danced before his eyes; the whole business was such a shock, that he could not puzzle it out, though his brain roared like a racing motor in the effort to make head or tail of it. "That thing might go off and hurt somebody."

"Damn right it might!" his uncle growled. "That's why you had better be careful and not play anything on me. Keep your pretty hands still, or I'll ruin them with a bullet. Now, turn around, march over to the vault, and bring me the tin boxes with the cash and the bonds. Go on, damn it! I mean it"!

Jake snapped the hammer of the revolver, and John, turned with considerable alacrity and went after the tin boxes of valuables in the safe. His face was pale and his hands trembled. The weakness of his ingenious plan was being shown up unmercifully. His uncle had no learning, but was diabolically clever in a practical way. John now expected to be the butt of his cruel sneering for weeks to come.

"I guess you win," he laughed nervously at Jake. "I give up. My apparatus was no good, and the laugh is on me."

Jake stamped violently on the floor.

"By God! I told you to get those boxes of bonds and cash. If you think I'm fooling, you're due to learn something in about ten seconds. This bank is through, do you know it?"

John reasoned rapidly. The only thing to do was to go ahead. If it was a joke, it would be interesting to see how far it would be carried. If it was not a joke, what else was there to do anyway? After all, life on nothing with no prospects was still considerably better than a bullet through his vitals.

"And don't touch anything, and keep your hands down low," Jake reminded him with a thin ironic leer in his voice. "If you don't believe I'll shoot, just try something."

Like a magician on the stage, anxious to show that he has nothing up his sleeve, John avoided touching anything but essentials, and touched these clearly and gingerly. He handed over some $200,000 worth of negotiable valuables from the safe, truly a princely sum for such a tiny bank. The idea occurred to him when it was too late, that he ought to have had some sort of trip or switch or button in the safe itself. That is, if it were really too late. Perhaps this was just a good chance to discover the defects of his apparatus and elaborate upon it. If this were only a test, he was certainly learning rapidly. His head was already full of improvements, and he was willing to forgive the grimness of the joke for the help it afforded.

The two other men held John covered with pistols while Jake Bloor stowed away the tin boxes in the suitcase.

"Now," Jake said again in that offensive, thick-lipped sneer, "I suppose you have been wondering how I am going to get out of here and keep you from pulling something. Well, it's like taking candy from a baby."

He approached the window again.

"Keep your hands down on that desk!" he commanded.

Jake Bloor took out his pocket knife and went for the wire that was concealed on the outside of the cage.

"Lookout! Don't—" cried John in alarm.

"Ha! ha!" Jake thoroughly enjoyed his big laugh. "You thought I was too dumb to notice that this was your main feed wire from your battery under the floor, to your little light bulbs. Ha! ha! ho! ho! Your old uncle's not so dumb!"

"But—" John tried to protest again.

He was too late.

"Shut up" his uncle barked sharply, "and keep your hands down."

"O. K., joke or no joke," thought John. "It's on his head."

He shut his eyes tightly and took a deep breath.

Jake cut the wire and yanked out a big length of it, which he started to put in his pocket. But he did not get that far with it. John heard the faint, comforting little click. There was a harsh hiss of gas. The door slammed ponderously shut and its bar clanged to. In front of the teller's window there was a whirr and a clash. Loud screams rent the air.

John could not resist opening his eyes, in spite of his knowledge of what the gas would do to them. Just for an instant, before a searing pain cut fairly into them, he saw kicking, struggling, writhing, screaming figures rolling on the floor, and just in front of his teller's window, his uncle was squeezed flat in a cage of bronzed bars, unable to move but only to give general twitching. Then John got down slowly and lay on the floor, because of the stinging in his eyes, nose and throat.

A thousand swords burned into his eyes; he sneezed and coughed and felt so miserable that he could neither remain on the floor nor stand up; he kept squirming and writhing about. He could hear the others groaning and writhing about and kicking the floor, and the loudest lamentations came from his uncle, hung up between the steel rakes. But no attempt that he could put forth was able to get his eyes open, which, in spite of his pain, he regretted. At that moment he would have given years off his life for a sight of Jake Bloor pinned up against the counter and gassed with tear gas, holding on to his suitcase full of money.

It seemed a hundred years of flashing, stabbing misery before relief came. Actually it was twenty minutes after the breaking of the wire when the sheriff from the city arrived with a car full of armed men. During this period, no one in Centerville had awakened to the fact that anything was wrong at the bank. John felt the breath of cool, fresh air, and strong hands lifting him. He was too dazed to pay attention to what was going on, and submitted when medicine were put down his throat. He was in bed for two days before he could get about properly.

On the morning of the third day his uncle came into the room. A burly man walked on each side of him. In fact, his uncle hardly walked; he was principally supported and pushed forward. Behind them came Dorothy; darting around in front of them, she had hold of John's hands.

"Johnny-on-the-spot !" she laughed, and kissed him in front of all the others, thereby embarrassing him tremendously.

But John had not missed the look of anxious concern on her face for an instant when she first came into the room, and before a quick glance told her that he was in good shape. He was grateful to Providence for her.

His uncle shuffled up to the bed.

"You're fired!" he attempted his quondam roar, rather anticlimatically. He looked very much used up.

"Tush! tush!" one of the big men said. "We can't fire that boy. We still need him." He was softly sarcastic about it.

John looked at them closely. They were certainly not the furtive creatures who had come into the bank that forenoon with Jake Bloor. In fact, he could see the edges of shiny badges peeping out from under their coats. It was only too obvious that Jake Bloor was under heavy arrest.

"But what I want to know," one of these big, official-looking men was saying, "is how you set off your stuff? This guy says he had you covered and that he cut your wires and pulled a section out of it."

John laughed heartily and long.

"My uncle is clever," he said, when he could finally speak; "but he missed a slight, though important fact. That wire supplied a current from a storage battery, and as long as that current kept running, everything was peaceful. It was the breaking of the current, either by shutting off the light to the photo-electric cells by hands up, or merely by cutting the wire, that set off the relay and turned on the tricks."

"Oh-h-h!" said Jake Bloor faintly.

"I tried to tell you " John began.

"Never mind," one of the big men said. "We'll tell him. But now we want you to come to the bank."

John dressed and went to the bank, where he again found his uncle and the two men. These two showed a persistent fondness for close proximity to his uncle; they would never permit him to move more than a few inches from their sight. There were also two smaller men going over the books.

"As I thought," said one of the latter. "Flat failure!"

One of the big men shook Jake.

"So you had the balloon punctured, and were ready to skip," he said quietly. "That won't sound good to the judge. Well, anyway, there's enough cash in your bag to pay off your depositors with— unless we have to divide it among those of the other banks he has robbed around here."

"Robbery and embezzlement both," said the other deputy. "That'll be about a hundred years at Leavenworth."

He turned to John.

"You will be required for a witness, so stay where we can reach you. I understand that the loss of this job is tough luck for you. Well, here's hoping you have no trouble finding another."

They all went out, bundling Jake Bloor with them. John and Dorothy were left alone in the bank.

With startling suddenness, the telephone rang shrilly. It was long-distance calling from the city.

"Are you the young man who devised the apparatus that caught the robbers in this bank? This is the Palisade Insurance Company, and we need somebody like you on our staff. Can you came into the office and discuss the details of your position? Thank you."

John and Dorothy looked into each other's eyes. That home of dreams was becoming a reality at last.

___________________

12: A Comedy of Crime

Maarten Maartens

1858-1915

Cosmopolitan, 30 Dec 1900

Dutch author Jozua Marius Willem van der Poorten Schwartz wrote in English under the pen name Maarten Maartens. He published a number of popular novels and short stories for the English language market.

IN the placid summer sunset the village smithy rested. Surely there is nothing more suggestive of repose from labor thana village smithy with a fire that is turning gray. Under that great beech the brawny smith sat thoughtful. His big arms, in the sleeves they seldom wore ere nightfall, hung idle across his bigger knees.

The hard toil of the day— of the week— was over. On the fields, and the neighboring cottages, and the silent road, lay a drowse of gathering darkness. It was all very peaceful and tender, with but an occasional murmur or tinkle; night was approaching, the happy summer night, in which even slow men's senses are stirred by the thought of the fairies' awakening; the kine lowed from the distance, full of the day's calm memories, in buttercup content. The smith sat, his black brows frowning heavily, thinking of nothing at all.

Frem the homestead over the way, a shiny-white building, uncomfortably spruce, there issued a long, thin figure, in somber clothing, which figure, majestically crossing a hundred yards of field and garden-plot, advanced toward the sleeping smithy. The smith sat well back, his round eyes agoggle, and snorted.

"Neighbor Blufkin, I wish you a good-evening," said the lanky old person in the black tail-coat.

"Good-evening, Neighbor  Boll," grumped the smith.

The first speaker blinked his eyes. "To-morrow is the blessed Sabbath," he said.

"Damn the blessed Sabbath!" was the unexpected reply.

Elder Boll uplifted his lean hands to the listening skies. An awful silence spread down from them upon the little group— the smithy, the beech, the two men.

"I beg its pardon," presently began the smith, his cheerful face ashamed, "I'm sure I beg the blessed Sabbath's humble pardon. I didn't mean to say as much as that. It's blasphemy. But you make me do it, Neighbor Boll."

"I forgive you with all my heart," said Elder Boll. "But, I hope, neighbor, that you now have duly considered my warning and exhortation of the night— let me see— the night before last."

He cautiously let himself down on the seat beside his burly victim, a proceeding of considerable difficulty, as the victim did not budge.

"The night before last and every other night," spitefully retorted the smith. "It's just jaw— jaw— jaw. Well, you may jaw till Doomsday. I can't run away.”'

"Doomsday, indeed!" echoed the elder, and dreadful thunder rolled with relish through his tones. "Doom! Doom! Doom!"

"Now it's you that's swearing," said the smith, reproachfully, and wedged the tobacco down into his pipe

"I shan't get tired! Don't fear," continued Boll, wagging his cadaverous face to and fro.

"No, I'll warn you, neighbor; I'll reprove you! I'll exhort you— there's no escaping me, Blufkin. 'Sarah,' says I to my wife every night, 'I'll never rest till I've brought that man, like a penitent, into the sacred edifice again!"

"I'd have gone back a month ago, if it hadn't been for you," snorted the smith.

"Ah, there speaks the voice of the scorner. But you needn't try to escape me, neighbor. No peace shall I know— nor you— till I've saved John Blufkin from his reprobate, hardened, impenitent condition, saved him like a—like a—"

"Don't you burn your fingers," interposed the smith, threateningly.

"Brand from the burning?" triumphantly exclaimed the elder, catching at the simile. He sat up, or rather "clung up," as well as he could, on his end of the seat and eyed, with calm certitude, the big mass beside him.

"Now, look ye here!" bellowed the smith. "See what happens. Last Ker messe-time— and damn all Kermesses, says I— that's not blasphemy, but religion— last Kermesse-time— there never was a little misfortune befell in a village or Kermesse was to blame for it ["Amen!" said the elder]— last Kermesse-time I finds a young fool a-trying to kiss my girl Suzie against her will. In the booth it was, where the five-legged calf was— my girl!" He started up with a roar, and shook his mighty fist in the frightened elder's face.

The latter, shrinking back precipitately, lost his uncertain balance off the seat's edge, and subsided upon a heap of rusty barrel-hoops that lay handy by the smith's door. He was up again in a moment, with a squeak. As he hurriedly and anxiously began rubbing himself, the rude blacksmith's laughter rang loud and long.

"Why the devil can't you sit when you sit?" said the smith. "What's the use of seating yourself like that beside as good a bench as ever bore a weight like mine onto nothing at all?"

"Onto barrel-hoops," corrected the old man, savagely. "Untidy heaps of rubbish lying about a respectable man's house, and on Saturday evening, too!"

"I'm not a respectable man," retorted the smith, with vigor, "and nobody knows it better'n you. When I hears my girl cry out I goes for that young fellow, and I gives him what for. I don't say I didn't give him more than what I intended—"

"You half killed him," interrupted the elder, viciously. "You'd had too much, and he'd had too much, and you forgot that vengeance is Mine—"

"Yours?" cried the indignant smith. "You think you can put your finger—"

"Blufkin, you are a heathen! I pity you!" piped the shrill old man, with immeasurable scorn. "Surely you know that vengeance wasn't yours, but—"

"Yes, that's what the magistrate said," continued Blufkin, sullenly. " 'Don't you know,' says he, 'that the police are there to repress misconduct?' Police! Repress! Damn the police! I wouldn't apologize, not on a red-hot gridiron, for swearing at them!"

"I am an old man," said Elder Boll, with admirable forethought, "and I tell you you are a profane brawler. And what did you get for your pains? Eight days' imprisonment. For the rest of your life you stand marked a—"

"Don't say the word again!" the enraged Blufkin.

"Well, I'll only think it," retorted the elder. "All the village thinks it, and always will."

The other ground his teeth, and the veins stood out black upon his forehead.

"And therefore I say unto you repent," continued the elder, sweetly gazing at the pale-blue sky. "You just come back to church; we'll all see that means you're sorry, Henk, that you half killed, I'll see you're sorry. He won't mind. You just come. We'll see you're sorry. That'll be repentance, atonement, remorse, a begging of everybody's pardons for the public offense; a humbling of yourself in the day of your abasement." He rose up, in all his rusty lankiness, and projected his piercing finger at Blufkin's chest.

"You go home," gurgled Blufkin.

The elder carefully surveyed his companion's countenance, and then suddenly walked off without saying good-night.

It was almost dark now. In the softly shaded night, all balm and tranquil happi- ness, the blacksmith's pretty daughter that the Kermesse row had been about, sweet, simple Suzie, the apple of her father's eye, came down the quiet country road on her return from the weekly mission meeting. Beside her walked Peter Boll, the elder's son, that was learning for lay evangelist, a sort of electroplated parson.

"How sweet the air is!" said Peter.

"It is," said Suzie.

"But not as sweet as you," suggested Peter.

"How silly!" answered Suzie.

"I't's the truth!" cried the lovesick swain.

"Gospel truth?" demanded Suzie, thereby catching the future theologian on the horns of a dilemma.

"Well, it's true enough for you and me," he made cautious reply. "Don't you like to hear me say it, Suzie?" he continued.

"Of course I like it in a way," frankly answered the girl. "Leastwise, I suppose I shall when you've spoken to father."

"I'll speak to your father as soon as I can. You don't think, Suzie, there's any chance to-morrow?"

But Suzie shook her head.

"If father'd been a-going to church to- morrow, he'd have got himself shaved at the barber's to-night."

The young man sighed. "Still, there's no knowing, for certain," he ventured.  "If the spirit was to move him—"

Suzie shook her head all the harder "The spirit couldn't move him unshaved, ”' she said.

"Father is that set on it!" groaned Peter. "He hasn't a good word for the smith. 'Jailbird,' he calls him. 'Jailbird.' I get sick of the word"— Suzie stamped one pretty foot— "don't you get angry, Suzie: he is an unrighteous unbeliever. Father's only thinking of his soul."

"You leave my father's soul alone," said Suzie.

"I'm not meddling with it, but, you see, I ain't an elder. When I've been ordained a preacher— I shall have to meddle with it then!" He lifted a complacent smile to the lofty vault of heaven. A solitary star returned the smile.

"My own father-in-law!" he added. "I shall have to convert him then."

"You'll find it pretty hard work," replied Suzie, with a shrug of her shapely shoulders.

"Pooh, I tell you I'm bound to convert him. A pretty name I should get as a preacher, if I couldn't convert my own father-in-law."

"Well, you try," exclaimed Suzie, in a pet. "He's not your father-in-law yet, and I'm not at all sure he ever will be. Father's worth two of you, Peter. He licked Henk for making me cry out. You'll never lick Henk!"

"He's stronger'n me," replied Peter;  "I must think of my good-conduct test. If anybody was to show impediment—"

"Oh, there's nothing wrong about your good-conduct test, I'll be bound. Poor father! You wouldn't have licked Henk."

"Licking's sinful; the Bible says we should turn the other cheek."

"Yes, that's what I ought to have done to Henk," remarked Suzie, complacently. "It was silly of me to cry out like that, and at Kermesse-time, too. He meant no harm, but he'd drunk too much."

"Suzan, for shame!" The aspirant preacher fell back.

"Henk isn't half a bad fellow! I like him," cried Suzie, wilfully. They stood still by the fence round the smith's garden, where the side-road curves into the laurel-bushes.

"Say another word, and I will thrash him!" cried the infatuated lover.

"Do," said a hearty voice, and a figure, stepping forth from the shade of the bushes, brushed the candidate aside, as a broom might sweep away a cobweb. "You'll have to, if you another minute, for I'm going to kiss Suzie again."

"Don't. Go away," said Suzie. She almost let the two sentences run into one.

"There's two things I want to tell you, Suzie, before I do," continued Henk. "First, I'm sorry I was a brute to frighten you. Secondly, your father didn't hurt me much. All the talk about death's door was malicious slander, set about by some people— they best know why." He shot the last sentence at Peter.

"Don't shout so, for heaven's sake!" gasped Suzie.

But her warning came too late. A big head appeared over the tall fence, and the smith's loud bass demanded :

"Suzie, who's with you there? Come in."

"Father's standing on that horrid rainbarrel," whispered Suzie. "It's all right, father. Only Peter Boll, walking home."

"You come in at once!" The smith stumbled off his rain-barrel.

"Now you mark this," declared Blufkin, as soon us his rosy-faced daughter made her innocent entry into the kitchen, "I'll have no flirtation with Peter Boll."

"Oh!" said Suzie. "Mother!"

The cheeriest, healthiest, handsomest old cluck in the village immediately responded to the cry of her chick.

"Now, don't you talk foolishness, Blufkin," interposed the fat vrouw, laughing, because she always laughed when she spoke, unless there were cause for tears. "I suppose you don't want the prettiest girl in the country to marry at all?"

"I don't say that.”'

"Well, it looks as if you meant it. One young fellow comes courting her, and you give him a black eye; another—"

"He's a wild 'un," interrupted the smith.

"Granted that he be a bit wild before marriage. You was wild after. And Peter Boll. Too good, I suppose?"

"Yes," thundered the smith. "You've hit it, old lady. Peter's too good. No son-in-law of mine shall turn up the whites of his eyes at his wife's father. I've enough of the old man's preaching; I won't stand the son's!" He banged his fist on the table at "won't," and Suzie screamed. " 'Jailbird!' says the old hypocrite. 'Jailbird!' pipes the young one. I'm a jailbird, am I?" He threw out his chest and faced the two women.

'“Well, you are, after a way," replied the wife, thinking to soften him.

"I'm a jailbird, am I?" he repeated quietly, turning to his daughter.

"Oh, father, I don't know."

"Yes, you do. Am I a jailbird?"

"Of course you are, in a way," stammered Suzie, beginning to cry.

"Of course I am. Now, mark my words. Your mother says I make difficulties about your marrying whom you like or she likes! No, I don't, none but one. The man that you marry must have been in prison, Suzie. That's all that I ask." He turned on his heel.

"What on earth does the creature mean?"  exclaimed the mother.

Blufkin paused by the door. "What he says," was his stern reply. "You want no better son-in-law than your husband, mistress. There's dozens of honest young fellows have got into scrapes about poaching or fighting or larking, a hundred times better than the sneaks that have kept out. And Suzie shall have a jailbird for a husband, or she shan't bring the man into this house!' He waited in the door- way as if half irresolute. I swear it by all that's sacred," he said, and disappeared into the smithy.

All the color had gone from the mother's ruddy cheeks. "Oh, if only he hadn't said them last words!" she sobbed, and sank down on a chair.

"He don't mean 'em,”" exclaimed Suzie, scared; "he often says 'em.”'

"Never, child. Mean 'em or not, he'll stick to them now. When father says 'by all that's solemn', he don't count that for much. But, Suzie, when I married the good man, he swore to me 'by all that's sacred' he'd never get drunk again except at Kermesse-time. He'd broke his oath before"—the poor woman's tones went shaky—"but 'I'll swear to you by all that's sacred,' he says with a frightened face, and, Suzie, he's kept to it; he wouldn't dare not."

Suzie lifted up her voice and wailed.

"During all these twenty years he's never got drunk, except at Kermesse, regular. And when he came back from— jail last month, he walks into this kitchen here with a face as white as yon tablecloth, and 'I'll stick to my two drams a day,' he says, 'Kermesse or not,' he says; 'I swear it by all that's sacred.' I've never heard him say it but just that twice, and now. Oh, Suzie, you'll never be able to marry Peter now! Are you really sure you want to?”'

"Yes," said Suzie, rebelliously.

"Well, there's no accounting for tastes," groaned the mother. "And it's very sudden, Suzie. You never used to think much of him, the canting— h'm. It was always Henk I thought you liked.”'

"Never!" exclaimed Suzie, with quite superfluous vehemence, turning very red.

Her mother stole a glance at her.

"There'd be some chance for Henk,”' said the vrouw, with a little ripple of humor, "though I never heard of his poaching. Well, a girl must have her own way about a husband. I had mine. Though if you was to ask me, Suzie, I think you're acting like the squire's daughter I was lady's-maid to, who married the wrong man, and that's why

"they called it 'pick.' "

"Father's drove away Henk," murmured Suzie.

"Well, child, you needn't have screamed so loud. And at Kermesse-time, too, and your father so hasty. Your father's like a lord about his womanfolk; I will say that. There, call him in to supper. Hear him knocking bits of cold iron about!"

The meal was a gloomy one, but a few hours later Suzie's rather sulky slumbers were disturbed by the well-known sound of her mother's laugh. She opened her eyes to the glare of a candle and the shak- ing of a loose white mass. The ponderous vrouw sank into a chair by the bedside.

" What is it, mother?" asked Suzie, not overgraciously.

"Suzie— hi! hi! hi!— now tell me, Suzie, you're quite sure you want to marry Parson Peter Boll?"

"I don't know. Let me sleep," answered the poor girl, closing her eyes.

"Well, you shall have your choice. A girl seldom changes her mind when it's set on the wrong 'un. If you want Peter you shall have him, child. I had to'come and tell you that. I've got an idea.”'

She rose heavily, still shaking her sides, and moved toward the door. "It come to me as I was undoing my back hair," she said.

"What idea?" cried Suzie, suddenly bolt upright in the bed.

"I'll tell you all about it in the morning. I must work it out."

"Well, I can afford to wait."

"That's a bad sign for Peter," replied the vrouw, closing the door behind her.

NEXT MORNING being the Sabbath, everybody went to church, except Blufkin. He stood, uncomfortable, behind his window, and watched the people go.

And he stood defiant before his door and saw them all come back. His wife and daughter walked slowly beside Peter.

Before they separated, the vrouw's idea had taken more definite shape. "Who wills the end must will the means." The smith's wife quoted this bit of well-worn wisdom several times to Peter before she could get him to see how true it is. Her plan, in half a dozen words, was this: The smith, whose honest self-respect had been unduly humiliated, must be humored in this crotchet of his about having a son-in-law no better than himself. To put the matter plainly, Peter must be helped to commit a crime. The vrouw herself felt that Peter, unabashed, would be a trial beyond endurance.

"But I can't sin," pleaded Peter.

"Nor you needn't," replied the ready vrouw. "You can take the money— won't it be yours when you marry Suzan? — besides, you'll return the box to me an hour later."

"I  can't do it," said Peter.

"And I'll show you what's inside.”'

Peter pricked up his ears. "I can't," he repeated, with the decision of weakness. "If I was to be found out—"

"Where'd your good-conduct test be?" interjected Suzie, slyly.

"Well, then, do the other thing— what I said first. It's the better," cried the vrouw, her face all ripples of laughter. "Go for Henk."

"I cuc—cuc—can't," gasped the wretched youth.

"Or you might try a bit of honest poaching.

"Lord! I might get shot!" Peter. "That's worse than a fight."

"Well, that's what I thought," said the vrouw, decidedly. "I thought you'd mind prigging something least. I promise you I'll make things right enough. I'll explain to the smith, and he'll be glad to get quit of his foolish oath. The box with the money that Suzie's great-aunt left her is in the wardrobe in my bedroom. I'll leave the door unlocked. The good man sleeps in the parlor all Sunday evening. You'll put the ladder to the window at the back— hi! hi! You'll bring me the box at once, and before I tell the smith a word I'll make him swear by all that's sacred that Suzie shall marry you, if she wants to, as soon as you've done something could get you into prison!" The jolly vrouw laughed on, as Peter thought, beyond rational cause for laughter.

"But he'll call me a thief," expostulated Peter.

"Only between ourselves; he'd never shame his daughter's husband in public. And the pleasure of calling Elder Boll's son a thief!— he'd take you for that alone."

"But not if he thinks I am a thief!"

"Does your father think my man a 'jail- bird'?" She turned on him triumphantly. "Do you want to marry Suzie or don't you? Well, nothing'll prove your love to him like you doing all this for her sake. And he'll have his gibe ready to fling at you when you start preaching righteousness— as you will."

"There's no sin, as I can see," said Peter, reflectively; "but there's a risk."

"Yes, the box is heavy," continued the smith's wife. "There's a good deal in the box; you'll know it by its weight. You're sure you want to marry Suzie?" She stole an ugly look at him from out her cheerful eyes.

"You needn't ask him again, please, mother," said Suzie, with uplifted nose.

Peter gazed at the pretty tilted feature, but, alas! his thoughts were of the box. Suzie was known to have inherited money ; the wildest rumors circulated as to the amount. Had ever mercenary lover a better opportunity before marriage of find- ing out exactly what he loved?

"You'll show me what's inside?" said.

"I keep my promises," answered the vrouw, shortly. "Yes."

"And you'll lock the parlor door?"

"Don't I tell you he's asleep all Sunday evening? A-sitting looking up the road with his eyes shut!"

"And you'll stop with him all the time and keep him from coming after me?"

"He won't come after you," replied the smith's wife, with much meaning.

"I'll do it," said Peter. "It's a capital way.”'

"It is," declared Suzie's mother. She again laughed inordinately, as watched Peter cross to his home. "Suzie, she said, "you're a fool, girl, but I pity you. It's your father's doing. And what can we do? Henk—"

"Oh, mother, please don't talk of Henk! It is father's doing. I never want to hear his name again."

"I was only thinking that if Henk were to do something that got him into prison, it wouldn't be stealing a money-box." She repeated these words with many furtive glances and head-shakings at her daughter. She slipped out in the afternoon, and went, as she said, to see her sister; but when she came back she laughed so much that the smith was annoyed at her untimely gaiety. He felt very cross himself, weighed down by his silly oath of the night before. He had a great opinion of his wife's judgment and a poor one of his own, but he knew that even she could not release him from the bonds of "all that's sacred." A terrible power indeed.

"Don't be a silly featherhead!" he said; so she knew he was longing for her guidance.

WHEN THE still Sabbath even had fallen, Elder Boll came round to the smith's door for a little friendly chat. The vrouw met him with her finger to her lips. "Hush, he's asleep," she said.

"He is," replied the elder; "in trespasses and sin. Stand aside, vrouw; 'tis my mission to wake him!" And he banged a loud bang with his stick on the parlor door.

The vrouw shrugged her shoulders, and grinned an expressive grin. "Oh, of she said, "if it's your mission to wake him!" And she flung wide the door.

"Giggle not, woman!" said the elder, sternly, as he took his seat beside the smith and began to expound the beauty of repentance in the manifestly fallen, the value of public humiliation after patent shame.

Meanwhile Peter, having assured himself, by repeated peeping, of the smith's sleepy presence at the parlor window, having even waited until he could distinctly hear a continuous snore, crept round to the unlocked gate at the back of the garden, found the ladder, as advised, in the out-house, and softly stole up through the grateful darkness to the open window on the second floor. His heart went pit-a-pat, but whether with fear or expectation he could hardly have told himself. His hands trembled as he seized the box in the cupboard, and felt its enormous weight. He knew that this trembling of the hands was a tribute of nature to gratitude awakened and to hope that soared beyond hope!

He hurried with his pleasing burden to the window, and rapidly felt along the sill. The ladder was gone.

"O Lord!" he said, and he was such a hypocrite that really one cannot be sure whether the words were not a prayer.

He looked hastily to right and left; there was no escape. But at that very moment he needs must fancy that he heard a sound on the stairs.

He looked down the wall, trying to measure its height in the darkness. It was not so very high, and the water-butt stood close beside it. The ladder must have fallen among the bushes. There was nothing for it but to slip down and get a footing on the water-butt.

He placed the box on the window-sill, and let himself down by both hands. Clinging tight, he took the handle of the box between his heavy jaws, and felt, dangling with both legs, for the top of the water-butt.

Alas, at that moment, in the very gasp of success, a violent pain shot across his body and changed the gasp to a howl. He twisted under it, with a wrench, that saught his flapping coat-tail in an iron hook against the wall, and the money-box dropped clanging to the ground. For a terrible moment he hung there, shrieking with agony, as blow after blow descended, lustily dealt, half-way down his long, wriggling frame. Several people had come running out the house with a lamp. His screams, objurgations and curses rose on the calm air, alternately threatful and pitiable— in a minute it was all over, and Peter lay spluttering in the water-butt. They pulled him out quickly, and propped him up against the wall.

Then he saw all their faces at once, in a circle, Suzie's, and her mother's, and the smith's, Henk's— and his father's!

"Peter!" screamed the horrified elder.

That was almost the worst of all. The disheveled and dripping lover saw, as his rapid glances traveled round the company, amazement and amusement written on every brow. Only the stolid, handsome yeoman, whose hand held a goodly switch, fresh-cut from the bushes, wore an air of calm content.

"Peter!" cried the elder, wringing his hands. "Oh, what a fall was there!"

"There was indeed!" said the smith; "into the water-butt.”'

But Peter's eyes now rested on the money-box. It had struck against a rail and burst open. A great brick had fallen out, leaving it empty. "Why, there's naught but a lump of brick in it!" he said.

"What! A thief!" exclaimed Blufkin, finding speech.

"A thief!" repeated Henk. "And I thought he came after Suzie."

The vrouw began to laugh and laugh.

"Get away!" she cried, winking to Henk. "What do you mean, you young rogue, by prowling about this house, when nobody knows you're near?"

"Well," replied Henk, and hung his head before the smith's uncertain gaze, "you see, I— am after Suzie." He straightened himself. "Yes, dang it all," he said, "and in spite of all, I'm after Suzie."

"Where's Suzie's money?" suddenly shouted the smith, and ran toward the prostrate figure with menace in face and gesture. Peter doubled up and shrieked.

"Keep cool, smith!" called his consort. "Suzie's money is safe enough. It'll never be Peter Boll's!"

Peter Boll lifted his angry eyes to her face, and a look of intelligence stole across them. "I don't want the money," he said, "but I'll have my revenge of that howling brute."

"Who did you say was 'howling'?" asked Henk.

"Assault and battery," responded Peter.

"O Lord, yes, assault and battery!" chimed in Elder Boll. "Peter, my boy, never you mind. I know you meant no harm. Imprisoned for assault and battery!"

"Like father," said Suzie, amazed at her boldness.

"Shall I make it worth your while?" asked Henk, switching the air as he spoke.

The smith interposed with outstretched hand.

"It's Peter must go to jail for stealing my bricks," he said, cheerfully. "Shake hands, Henk, and let bygones be bygones. I love you for licking the skulking cad."

"We'll have the law of him, never you fear!" cried the elder.

"You're sure you will?" interposed Vrouw Blufkin, suddenly pushing to the front.

"Sure!"

"Certain?"

"What does the woman mean? I never swore in my life, but I'll swear to Henk's going to prison for assault and battery."

"Then in that case he'll be a jailbird like me—" began the smith, as a grin broke slowly across his awkward features.

"The pair of you, indeed, in a Christian parish."

"And your clerical son," concluded the smith.

"So Suzie can take her choice, suggested Suzie's mother, as the elder fell back, disconcerted.

"Tush, tush," said the smith; "we'll all go to church together before anybody goes to prison!"

_______________

13: Peter

Arthur Sherburne Hardy

1847-1930

Atlantic Sep 1920

'WHAT are you thinking of, Peter?'

At the sound of the voice Peter's tail moved slightly. Peter's meditations were not to be disturbed by idle questions. They were too profound— far more profound than the speaker imagined. They had nothing to do with material things.

Like his master, Peter was a philosopher. There the likeness ceased. The master's philosophy ended in perplexity, Peter's in serenity; for he was the only living creature that had seen its god.

There was not the slightest doubt about it. Every earthly pleasure, every material satisfaction, was traceable to that strange being sitting hour after hour in the leather chair with the big folio open on his knees. Nothing had ever thrown the faintest shadow of doubt on Peter's conviction. Nothing the being in the chair might do in the future could invalidate his divinity; and in this knowledge was supreme content.

Peter made no pretence of understanding his god. Long since he had acknowledged that his ways were past finding out. He was under no obligation to explain the amazing futility of his actions. It was enough for Peter that the master was the dispenser of good and evil; that he was asleep by his fire, would presently walk with him in the wood, and sup with him on their return.

Nor did it matter to Peter that he was misunderstood. He was not bothered by what he did not know. He took life and god as they were given him. It was well that he had not mastered all the accents of language— the pity and the vanity of the question addressed to him. For Peter, in the belief of the master, was a rank materialist, credited only with sordid thoughts of supper, foolish thoughts of the squirrel that had mocked him from the oak, animal thoughts of the fire's warmth and the rug's softness. Whereas Peter was thinking of none of these things. They counted for nothing in comparison with the friendship and companionship of his god. For Peter had found what man had been seeking ever since he emerged from the slime; what he had prayed to before priests were born. How many images he had fashioned in tears and broken in scorn! how many puppets lifted to thrones and dragged in dust! Peter had had no via dolorosa. He was born with an organized judgment, superciliously designated by the master as instinct. Peter knew. He would sleep a little longer, till the folio was closed, and the voice said: 'Arise, and follow me.'

Peter was not blind to his privileges. He only had free entrance to the Holy of Holies. In this respect he took precedence over Tom and Mary. He had a tolerant affection for Tom and Mary, though they often offended his dignity. That he was distinctly superior to both was indisputable. There was also a woman who came occasionally into the temple, sharing his rights. But Peter was discriminating. She was not a god— only a worshiper, like himself. Peter gave her his left-over love. She was kind, not masterful, and possessed the power of rendering him uneasy, even jealous. Peter could fight for a bone. That was a trivial matter. The precious thing was the master's affection— not to be divided. His nearest approach to intimacy was the master's knee. The woman had his arms. A vague sense of injustice troubled Peter's serenity. His objections to tramps were of a different order. Life after all was a mystery, the woman the greatest of all. Peter's sense of right and wrong was keen. He accepted the master's whip without flinching. He knew he had no business to flush that partridge. But the woman's punishments were unmerited, besides being ridiculous, and her praise unearned; the master's, rare, worthy of a god.

But of death, the greatest of mysteries, Peter knew nothing.

For his associates Peter entertained a tolerant contempt. What the woman did not know, he knew: that the cat was a fawning egoist, selfish to the core and incapable of self-abnegation. The master was not so easily deceived. The poultry he took under his protection, as every fox on the hillside was aware. Peter loved authority, but used it tactfully, shutting his eyes when the puppy raided the hennery and ran riot among silly folk who did not know the difference between malice and fun. His only real acquaintance was the master's horse. Deep down in his consciousness as the spiritual sign of distinction was the fact that he was of a superior race— the only race in the animal kingdom which preferred the society of man to that of its own kind.

Peter opened his eyes.

The light was failing fast. All hope of the comradeship and freedom of the open air was over. He gave a long sigh and closed his eyes again. The master had forgotten. The enemy of all joy was still on the knee. A fleeting memory crossed Peter's brain, of a day of wrath, when he had scattered his enemy in mouthfuls over the floor. Jolly days those, in spite of the whacks! Now were the sober years of discretion. Not for him to question the doings of a god.

He knew precisely what was to happen. Mary and Tom would come in to be kissed good-night. Next they would roll with him on the rug and pull his ears. He did not mind that overmuch. He had been a puppy himself, and love was love in all its forms. Then the woman would come in.

Peter gave a low growl.

The master looked up.

'What's the matter, Peter— dreaming?'

No, Peter was not dreaming. He rose, nosed the folio from the knee, and rested his head in its place— his own place. The master laid his hand on the head, smoothing back the silky ears. Peter's eyes were mute, as human tongues sometimes are, for sheer happi- ness.

Then came night, exile, when the woman had her way, and he went on guard.

Peter was conscious of his faults. They had been pointed out to him times innumerable, whereby his virtues had become a second nature of which he was not conscious at all. The master extolled his patience, obedience, politeness. Peter would have laughed in his sleeve, if he had had one. Certain things were inexpedient to do. But character, unacquired native virtues, inherited from ancestral experience under the law of the jungle, were his. He was proud, without vanity. He lapped the water at the spring without seeing the reflection, and passed the woman's long mirror with superb  indifference. He was thus ignorant of the gray hairs gathering about his eyes.

Of abstract time he had no knowledge. Memory and anticipation were his. He could put two and two together, but not two and four. He knew, but he did not know that he knew. That something was happening, he was painfully aware— something sinister, unaccountable, which warned him that it was better to creep under the four bars he used to take with one flashing leap; to seek the flat stone warmed by the sun— something intangible, persistent, which neither growl of protest nor curling lip, revealing white fangs, intimidated.

The evidence was unmistakable. Tom and Mary were growing rough, the woman less hospitable, and his friend the horse inconsiderate. Time was when he ran two miles afield for the road's one. Every leaf-strewn lane, every sun-flecked valley on the hills Peter knew by heart— but not the Valley of Shadows. At its gate he entered, uneasy, but fearless, comforted and secure in the unfailing loving-kindness of his god.

There came an evening when Tom and Mary passed all bounds. Such hugs and kisses and tears! Peter bore this uneven distribution of affection with his customary courtesy, shook his ruffed garments into form, turned three times deliberately, and lay down—no longer in his once favorite position, hind legs outstretched, nose between paws. That had long since been abandoned out of respect for the craven enemy that tormented him. Peter's remedies against hidden foes, too cow- ardly to fight in the open, were few— the field-grass, and sleep— always sleep. Sleep now was not even forgetfulness. Proud as ever, the semi-conscious whine of sleep was his last capitulation to the enemy.

Flat on his side, he heard far away the subdued murmur of conversation, opening his eyes at the sound of his name— to close them again. They were speaking of him, not to him.

Then, suddenly, the master rose, with decision, put on his hat and coat and spoke.

'Come, Peter.'

Peter, wincing, bounded to his feet, wide-awake in a second. His friend the horse was at the door. It was humiliating to be lifted to the seat. There were tears in the woman's eyes, which usually happened when the master went on a journey. Peter curled himself up on the seat. If the master was going on a journey, he was going.

Peter knew every road-turning with his eyes shut— but not this road, nor its ending. The place and its tenant were strangers. That the master should leave him with this stranger was something unprecedented. But Peter followed obediently. Was not the friend of the master his friend also?

The room whose door closed upon him was a strange one— straw for carpet. Where was the furniture? Peter sniffed, suspiciously. There was a strange odor. Peter was a judge of odors. This one, attached to no personality, was disquieting. He listened,— the sound of wheels was dying away,—then barked furiously. For the first time in his life he felt utterly lonely. He so far forgot himself as to howl. But betrayal never entered his mind. He took three uncertain steps,— the room was growing dark; his legs wobbled,— steadied himself with an effort, then tumbled over on his side, seeing visions, visions of wood and stream, of rug and fireside,— and master,— stretched out the traitor legs and gave a long low sigh.

Going on his last journey, Peter took his god with him.

__________________

14: Mr. Clackworthy Revives a Town

Christopher B. Booth

1889-1950

Detective Story, 24 Sep 1921

THE long-hooded car, its eight cylinders humming in rhythmic, mechanical perfection, rolled easily along the lake shore highway. On one side Lake Michigan sparkled like an amazing collection of jewels as the gently moving waves toyed with myriad sunbeams; on the other the greening fields extended, glorious in their new spring verdure. Mr. Amos Clackworthy, host to his three coplotters, James Early, George Bascom, and George's pretty wife, sat at the steering wheel; he slackened speed that all might better enjoy the view.

"It's beautiful!" cried Mrs. Bascom. "Oh, why do we have to be cooped up in cities?"

"It is beautiful," and Mr. Clackworthy nodded. "I shouldn't wonder if even James, here, feels his thoughts stirred to—"

The Early Bird, seated beside the master confidence man, snorted indignantly at this accusation of poetic leanings,

"I'll tell ya what it stirs my thoughts to," he retorted. "Them fields is just the color of greenbacks, an' that reminds me that the firm of Clackworthy an' Company had better be discussin' ways an' means of grabbin' some kale instead of ravin' about the breeze blowin' through the trees, an' all that spring-time stuff."

"And listen to that mocking bird!" cried Mrs. Bascom, squeezing her husband's hand. "Could there be sweeter music than that?"

"There sure could," mumbled James, although the question was not addressed to him. "Right now I'd rather hear a soup-spoon solo with Yours Hungrily renderin' the pleasin' ditty. The old molars is just achin' for the feel of a good T-bone."

"Now that isn't a bad suggestion," agreed George Bascom, who let his better half voice the poetic sentiments of the Bascom family. "We ought to get a first-rate meal at some of these country inns."

"Fried chicken!" exclaimed Mrs. Bascom, turning her enthusiasm to the suggestion. "Yum-yum! I can smell it right now! And biscuits!"

"Now you are spielin' poetry," said The Early Bird. "An' if the old peepers ain't foolin' me, I lamps what looks like a town over there t' the right. Le's go."

"I make the vote unanimous." Mr. Clackworthy laughed as he turned the machine into the side road along which lay the collection of roof tops which The Early Bird had pointed out. "Wardsville, one mile," said a weather-battered signpost. A few minutes later the car was approaching the first of the modest little cottages. The yards of each were tangled with weeds, the windows of the houses vacant.

"Ain't no house shortage in this here burg," remarked The Early Bird. "All these places is as empty as a church on Monday mornin'."

The street through which they passed presented an unbroken line of deserted cottages, mostly cheap, hastily constructed affairs of three and four rooms. A little distance off there loomed, in dismal vacancy, a concrete block building. Evidently it had at one time been some sort of factory.

"Certainly a ghost town," commented Mr. Clackworthy. "Same old story; factory closed and the town died. We'll get no chicken dinners here, I'll wager."

The first sign of life was when a dog of doubtful lineage picked himself slowly from the middle of the street, too listless even to bark at the strangers. And then they saw Sam Clark.

Sam Clark, as it afterward developed, was burdened by a multitude of public offices. He was postmaster, mayor of Wardsville, and chief of police, none of which duties took any great amount of time. When Mr. Clackworthy and his party first sighted Sam Clark he was sitting on the roofed-over porch of the frame building which housed the post office. He looked up with mild interest and got slowly to his feet as the big automobile came to a stop. Plainly he was of the species ruralis; he wore a straggly beard; his shoulders were stooped, and his hands were gnarled by farm work. Perhaps that is why he looked so grotesque in his flashy clothes; he wore a loud, checked suit, sharp-pointed shoes, and flaming silk shirt, from the bosom of which glistened a diamond of not less than three carats.

"Lookey the rainbow!" exclaimed The Early Bird. "Solomon in all his glory sure was a piker alongside this goof. Lamp the sparkler, boss; some headlight, I calls that piece of ice!"

Mr. Clackworthy had, indeed, "lamped the sparkler," and he was puzzled. Expert that he was in the complex art of analyzing human nature, the master confidence man was somewhat at a loss to classify Sam Clark. It was a safe assumption that no man would thus array himself unless it be with the fruits of easy money—and where was there to be found easy money in this deserted, forlorn, weed-run village?

"We are looking for the inn," said Mr. Clackworthy.

"Somebody send you?" demanded Sam Clark. It was to be seen that he eyed the motorists with appraising calculation,

"Our appetites sent us," Mr. Clackworthy said, laughing. 'We are looking for a good dinner."

"A good chicken dinner," supplemented Mrs. Bascom.

"Yeah," affirmed The Early Bird, "we wants a bang-up feed."

Sam Clark scowled.

"There's an inn four miles along— on the east road," he said, as if he grunted out the words. "Turn to the right at the fork in the road down at the foot of the hill. Remember, now, turn to the right; the east road."

"We gotcha, Lord Chesterfield," chirped The Early Bird with an almost impertinent bow.

"Thank you so much!" Mrs. Bascom smiled sweetly.

Mr. Clackworthy darted another glance at the holder of local offices. One thing had swiftly impressed itself upon the master confidence man's mind —Sam Clark did not want them to take the road to the left! He threw in the clutch and the car rolled forward. He would not have been greatly syrprised had he known that Sam Clark at once went to the telephone in his little office and cautiously advised of wandering strangers in the vicinity.

At the foot of the hill Mr. Clackworthy checked speed at the fork in the road, pointing the car's nose toward the left turn.

"He said the right turn, boss!" warned The Early Bird.

"So he did, James," and Mr. Clackworthy smiled.

"But you're goin' the wrong way, boss; this is the left."

"Quite right you are, James."

"Then what the—what the—" sputtered the puzzled James.

"I was created, my dear James, with a reasonably human amount of curiosity," replied Mr. Clackworthy. "I am, therefore, curious to find out two things: I am curious to know why our self-appointed guide back there in Wardsville was so eager to keep us off the left road, and I am further curious to learn just where that self-same man gets the money to array himself like a race-track tout who has just won a hunderd-to-one shot."

The Early Bird's eyes widened in surprise, but he nodded vigorously.

"S-say!" he exclaimed. "Blamed if that bozo didn't look like real coin! You—you ain't figurin' on—"

"On taking our rural friend's diamond away from him?" finished .Mr. Clackworthy. "Hardly that, James. No, just put it down to pure, unadulterated curiosity."

The road, winding through an avenue of giant trees, suddenly straightened out, and before them loomed the bulk of a big building which had "road house" written all over it.

"Ah! exclaimed Mr. Clackworthy. "It seems that I was right. Here, a scant three-quarters of a mile from the heart of the village, we find our inn. There are ten, twelve, fifteen automobiles parked outside; that precludes any possibility that the place is deserted. The place is well patronized and, to judge from the makes of those cars, by a high-class clientele."

The Early Bird scratched his head.

"An' then what did that guy wanna try an' steer us t' a place four miles farther on for?" he demanded. "Mebbe he's knockin' this joint."

"That remains to be seen," replied Mr. Clackworthy.

They drove up to the side entrance, and the quartet alighted. As they stepped within an attendant frowned upon them with an amazing lack of hospitality.

"We would like chicken dinners for four," said Mr, Clackworthy.

"Fried chicken, of course," put in Mrs. Bascom.

The attendant frowned again.

"You made no reservations," he said coldly. "We never serve diners who have not previously made reservations."

"Come," and Mr. Clackworthy smiled graciously, "you are not going to turn away four well-paying wayfarers who are very hungry. Four chicken dinners, please."

"We shall be unable to serve you," again refused the inn's attendant sourly. "We have no chicken dinners."

"Then we shall have to eat something else," declared Mr. Clackworthy with unruffled suavity.

"Yeah," grunted out The Early Bird, "anything that an ostrich can use will suit me. Trot out the grub, old rain-in-the-face."

"I am sorry—"

"Come, my dear man," interrupted Mr. Clackworthy sternly. "This is a public inn, I take it. I want food for myself and my guests; I demand that we be served."

Mr. Clackworthy could be very compelling when he chose, and he fixed the servant's stubborn gaze with an eye that commanded obedience.

"I— I might manage to get you sandwiches; something very light," he capitulated. "I will show you to the dining room."

In the dining room, Mr. Clackworthy, The Early Bird, and the Bascoms found themselves the sole diners.

"Wonder where all them swells what's got their cars, parked out in front is munchin' their cud," murmured The Early Bird. "There's somethin' queer about this joint."

"It's uncanny, isn't it?" and Mrs. Bascom shivered. "What do you make of it, Mr. Clackworthy?"

"I have my suspicions," said the master confidence man with a smile. "Can't you guess?"

"Is—is it some sort of a—a criminal's hang-out?" she demanded breathlessly.

"It depends, my dear friends, just what you mean by the word 'criminal.' If you mean in the strictly technical sense— yes. Really you ought to size it up with half an eye. Do you get it, James?"

"Just like I get this here Einstein goof's line of chatter, boss."

A moment later the surly servant came in with sandwiches; certainly if he were deliberately discouraging them from becoming future patrons, he was choosing a generally approved way of driving away trade. He almost slung the food in front of Mr. Clackworthy, tipped over Mrs. Bascom's coffee, and glared at all four. The sandwiches were sorry, inadequate things.

"Come, my dear man," chidingly said Mr. Clackworthy, "we can not really be such unwelcome guests as you seem to imagine."

"Sir?"

"Do we look like detectives?"

"Sir?"

"We, my friends and I," continued Mr. Clackworthy calmly, "would like to be permitted to join your other guests upstairs."

The servant seemed momentarily disconcerted.

"You are mistaken," he said frigidly. "There are no guests upstairs." And he stalked away.

The Early Bird leaned forward eagerly.

"Slip me the lay, boss," he pleaded.

"Yes, please do," urged Mrs. Bascom, and George, her husband, nodded to indicate his own curiosity.

"Above this ceiling," explained Mr. Clackworthy, "there is a place of which I vaguely remember. having heard— a sort of exclusive Monte Carlo where the rich of the big city in which we live come to win the excitement which is to be gotten at the roulette wheel."

"A gamblin' joint, eh, boss?" cried The Early Bird.

"Oh, my dear James, not a gambling joint!" exclaimed Mr. Clackworthy in mock horror. "A gambling establishment; a place where those of great means can come in safety and quiet and gamble to their heart's content without fear of detection. A card of admission by previous arrangement is necessary, as all of us have been forced to observe. And—"

Mr. Clackworthy's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and he drummed his long fingers on the tablecloth as a sudden idea took possession of him,

"And," he went on slowly, "for this rudeness to you and to myself, my three dear friends, I am determined to collect a sum of money adequate for our— er— our wounded pride. How much balm is necessary to soothe your ruffled feelings, James?"

"Huh!" grunted James. "If that dumb-bell will come back here an' give me a real slice of ham t' put between these two pieces of bread, an' trot out the mustard bottle, I'll let him off for a coupla bucks. Ferget it, boss; these ginks is wise ones. The percentage is always on their side."

Mrs. Bascom took the master confidence man's remarks as genial raillery.

"I certainly think that the loss of a good chicken dinner is worth five thousand dollars." And she laughed.

"That would be a twenty-thousand total for the four of us," Mr. Clackworthy said. "Then we must add something for the expenses of collection.

Suppose we make it twenty-five thousand dollars in all."

"Boss!" sputtered The Early Bird. "You ain't on the square with that twenty-five-thousand-dollar stuff?"

"I certainly am, James."

"How ya gonna do it?"

"Of that, James, I am not so sure," admitted Mr. Clackworthy, "but I begin to get the dawning of an idea. One thing, however, is certain; we're going to get the money."

ii

TWO WEEKS had passed, and The Early Bird, mooning disconsolately in Mr. Clackworthy's Sheridan Road apartment, chafing under the protracted inaction, had quite forgotten about the master confidence man's threat to reduce the doubtless swollen profits of Chicago's suburban Monte Carlo; he had, in fact, dismissed it as an idle promise of vengeance, made in a moment of indignation. Therefore James was startled when the "boss," smiling his teasing smile, revived the subject.

"James," said Mr. Clackworthy, "I wish that you would give our good friend, George Bascom, a ring, and tell him that he and his wife are invited to be ready at two o'clock this afternoon for a trip to Wardsville. Mrs. Bascom should take her trunk along; we will be there for some time."

"Wardsville?" questioned The Early Bird; then his brow cleared. "Y' mean that burg out north sufferin' from the sleepin' sickness?"

"Precisely the place, James, and your metaphor is very apt; we are about to awaken Wardsville from its somnambulism."

"Whatever that means," grumbled The Early Bird. "Translate it into my language, boss. Y' mean you're gonna throw the hooks into the outfit that's runnin' that gilt-edge speak-easy? Y' gonna lift the sparkler off'n that over-dressed hick what we seen flaggin' unwelcome customers?"

"Some of the sort, James," and Mr. Clackworthy laughed, "except, however, that I have no designs upon Mr. Sam Clark's jewelry— his name is Sam Clark, you know, and he is mayor of Wardsville, police officer, and post-master. However, I am about to interfere seriously with the revenue which purchased Mr. Clark's raiment and precious stones. Call the Bascoms, please; two o'clock is the hour I shall call for them."

"Aw, boss, ain'tcha gonna slip me an earful ?"

"Not at present, old dear. I reserve the dramatist's right to withhold the suspense."

And The Early Bird, grumbling, went to the telephone.

As they made the trip to Wardsville it was evident to the Bascoms as well as to James Early that the master confidence man had prepared a genuine surprise for them, for Mr. Clackworthy was in his best humor, jovial and joking and teasingly warding off the eager questions of his three puzzled coworkers, As the car entered the outskirts of the town it was evident, too, that a transformation was taking place. Wholesale war had been declared on the wilderness of weeds, and, as they stopped at one of the larger cottages, there was evidence of occupancy.

"How do you like it?' asked Mr. Clackworthy of Mrs. Bascom.

"It's quite pretty," she replied, "but it needs a good many things done to it— flowers and things like that."

"You think, then, that you can endure living here the rest of the summer?" pursued Mr. Clackworthy.

"Live here— me?" she gasped. "The rest of the summer? You're joking!"

"Indeed I am not," he replied. "This is the first little surprise for you; this is the place that I've fixed up for you and George. You'll find it fairly cozy, although hardly so elaborate as you might desire— if it were to be your permanent residence."

The Early Bird was blinking rapidly as le tried to fathom the depths of what was evidently an intricate scheme whereby Mr. Clackworthy planned to annex to his own bank account a number of dollars.

"Too deep for me, boss; he admitted sadly. "Come on, be a good sport an' slip us th' info."

"Surely, James," and Mr. Clackworthy laughed, "there is nothing necessarily peculiar about my treating my able assistants to a vacation in the country. You and I havea placea little farther down the street; it will be a nice, quiet spot for my reading— when I am not busy looking after the factory; none of the squawking automobile horns that distract those who dwell along Sheridan Road."

The remark about the quiet spot for reading was adding fuel to The Early Bird's already flaming indignation, for he detested his idol's habit of browsing leisurely through his classical volumes.

"Factory!" exploded The Early Bird. "What's a factory gotta do with liftin' a bunch of coin off'n these gamblin' fellers? Moreover I ain't gonna be stuck off in the woods like this."

"What if I should have been thoughtful enough to defy that particular section of the Volstead Act which relates to the transportation of liquors from place to place?" asked Mr. Clackworthy.

"Well, if you brought along enough of the redeye," amended The Early Bird, "mebbe I can manage t' drown my sorrow. But it's sure gonna help me bear up under the burden if I'm let in on the know."

"Oh, we won't get lonesome. There'll be quite a colony of us. There's 'Pop' Blanchard."

"You've rung Pop in on it?"

"Yes, James; he's to be manager of the factory."

"Some elaborate layout!" exclaimed The Early Bird. "You must be figgurin' on cleanin' up quite a pile of the yellow stuff. What kinda factory is this, anyhow?"

"A mattress factory," replied Mr. Clackworthy. "I found a concern in Chicago that was in financial straits. At the same time I was fortunate enough to find a jobbing house that needed five thousand mattresses. Until this order is filled, at any rate, Wardsville's new industry, housed in the long-deserted factory building here, will make expenses. Any profits we make from—er—other sources will be clear."

"Yeah," commented The Early Bird, "it oughta be pretty soft, the mattress business."

iii

WITHIN a week the ten residents of Wardsville, the little handful left of the three hundred souls when the town gave promise of amounting to something, were dazed to find a thriving industry operating in their midst. The population was swelled to about fifty, which included Mr. Clackworthy and his immediate fellow conspirators, as well as the thirty-odd mattress makers who had been imported from the city.

It was somewhat reminiscent of the days when Wardsville had been founded. The workers in the new factory got free rent of their cottages, and their groceries and household supplies were sold to them at cost by the small cooperative store which Mr, Clackworthy had established. Some inducement, it was true, had been needed to get the men away from the city.

Ten years before Philo Ward had founded the town. He built his manufacturing plant on the theory that the employees should share in the profits. The test remained unproven, for, shortly after it was started, Philo Ward died, and those who inherited his money did not inherit his ideas. They scouted the profit-sharing business as a silly piece of foolishness and put a stop to it.

Wardsville's houses were emptied, the factory closed, and Philo Ward's home, on the edge of the newly founded town, boarded up. It was an elaborate place, fitted out in elaborate, but erratic style; the heirs, who lived in Europe, had not even bothered to move out the furnishings and paintings. The entire property was put in the hands of an agent, but no one wanted to buy.

This was the situation when certain gentlemen in Chicago, sizing up things, had seen a great opportunity. They leased the Ward home and established in it their roulette wheels and poker tables where, not infrequently, it was said, a thousand dollars was won and lost on the turn of a card.

The Ward home was within the corporate limits of the village of Wardsville. And that was where Sam Clark came in. Sam Clark, after the exodus, kept his cottage and eked out an existence with his chickens and his truck garden. He was postmaster because no one else wanted the job; he became mayor for the same reason. It was no difficulty to get himself, in addition, appointed a police officer. He was one of those fellows who liked to look over the documents, signed by the governor and the president, certifying his offices.

Being of a naturally curious bent, Sam Clark nosed around a bit when the old Ward home was reopened and autoists began to travel the narrow road which led to the place. His curiosity was well rewarded. Mr. Ambrose Castleman, who conducted the outlawed pastime at the Ward place, had a heart-to-heart talk with Sam Clark, with the result that Sam Clark quit gardening and gathering eggs but, despite his apparent shiftlessness, began to roll in money.

Truth to tell, Sam Clark got a hundred and fifty dollars a week for failing to invoke the duties of his office.

Castleman's gambling house was frequented by a very high-class clientele, for Ambrose Castleman knew that the "squawks" generally came from losers who could not afford to lose. Therefore he saw to it that those who played at his gaming tables were those who would never miss the money; or, if they did miss it, to keep their grief to themselves. No strangers were admitted.

The days sped past, and still Mr. Clackworthy failed to enlighten his puzzled coworkers as to the details of his plot. The Early Bird, Mrs. and Mrs. Bascom, and Pop Blanchard held frequent guessing contests, but, even by their combined stretches of imagination, they could not hypothesize any connection between a mattress factory and the Castleman gambling house.

Mr. Castleman himself, sleek, soft-voiced, and crafty, viewed the new population with a vague annoyance. Wardsville, because of its isolation and lack of folk who might show a disposition to pry into his peculiar and profitable buisness, made it an ideal location; and the success of his establishment was predicated on the assumption that its seclusion insured complete privacy.

However, as the days passed and none of the new residents showed any concern regarding anything except the mattress factory, Mr. Castleman turned his mind to other matters and probably would have dismissed it entirely, except that he received a visit from Mr. Amos Clackworthy. It happened that Mr. Clackworthy chose a time of day when Mr. Castleman was in an impatient frame of mind.

It was early in the morning— ten o'clock, to be exact— and, as most of the gaming was done at night, this was about Mr. Castleman's retiring hour. He was quite tired and very sleepy. He looked up impatiently as he received the man whom he knew to be the head of the town's new industry.

"Yes, yes, Mr.— er— Clackworthy," he said, glancing at the card, "what can I do for you?"

"I am very grateful to you, Mr. Castleman, for this interview," said the confidence man genially, "and I am quite sure that you, in time, will be grateful to me. You have doubtless heard something of the new industry which I have established in Wardsville?"

"Yes," assented Castleman in a colorless voice.

"I had best begin by saying," pursued Mr. Clackworthy, "that I have long admired the industrial theory propounded and advocated by the late Philo Ward. However, I think he carried it too far— much too far. But more of that in a moment. I am here to explain to you that the Wardsville Mattress Company is but the nucleus to be operated on a modified theory such as outlined by Mr. Ward himself."

"What has that to do with me?" demanded Castleman with a show of asperity.

"Just a moment, my dear Mr. Castleman," genially continued Mr. Clackworthy, "Please have patience. As you, of course, do not need to be told, a manufacturing concern gets its maximum production with contented workmen, And that is the late Mr. Ward's theory— contented fabor. We have now been operating the Wardsville Mattress Company some weeks ; every one of our employees is a satisfied employee. We are paying a higher wage than for the same work in the city; we are getting more production. Now to get down to brass tacks:

"I have taken a lease and option on the factory building and all of the store buildings and cottages of the Ward estate— except this house which you occupy. My plan is to enlarge the mattress factory, to fill the remaining vacant cottages; then to launch other factories— canning factories, broom factories, clothing factories, shirt factories, hat factories, lace factories."

"You're taking in a large territory," Mr. Castleman said with a sneer. "I repeat, how does this interest me?"

"We are going to crawl before we start walking," replied Mr. Clackworthy. "Each industry will stand on its own merits. In a few years houses will stretch over this country as far as the eye can see. The capital stock of our present company—"

"I see," snorted Mr. Castleman, "a stock-selling scheme. You're wasting your time— and mine, which is more important."

"Just a moment," protested Mr. Clackworthy insistently. "The present capital stock of our company is small— only seventy thousand dollars. We propose to make this the parent company, and all who subscribe for stock in the parent company will receive, as a bonus, share for share in all of the succeeding companies. I understand that you are a man of means, and—"

"Aw, you make me sick!" exploded Mr. Castleman with abrupt frankness. "Get out of here with your visionary schemes. I want to go to bed; get out."

Mr. Clackworthy smiled pleasantly.

"Mr. Castleman," he said chuckling, "I'm willing to lay you a little bet; I'll bet you five hundred dollars, two to one, that you will see the advantages of owning this stock before the end of thirty days."

Castleman glanced up quickly.

"I'm a sportsman; I don't deal in sure things," he refused.

iv

SAM CLARK— pardon us, Mayor Clark— was sitting on the porch of his little office proudly gazing upon a pair of diamond-studded cuff links which he had only the day before purchased in the city. Diamonds were his mania. Glancing up dreamily, he frowned.

Across the street he saw The Early Bird, tack hammer in hand, nailing up some sort of printed notice.

"Hey!" he called.. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Whatcha think I'm doin'?" retorted The Early Bird with utter lack of respect for the mayoral dignity.

Red of face at the rebuff, Mayor Clark got to his feet and ambled over to where he could read the printed matter. The top line, in heavy black type, announced: "Mass meeting to-night."

This in itself was startling, for in years there had been no gathering of the local citizenry.

"Mass meeting!" exclaimed Mayor Clark. "I ain't heard nothin' about no mass meetin'."

"Well, you're hearin' about it now," retorted The Early Bird. "That's what I'm tackin' up these here bills for. Better come out; liable t' get an earful."

Mayor Clark found the notice briefly disconcerting; it continued:

WHEREAS a municipal election is to be held in the town of Wardsville on the fourth day of next month, for the election of a mayor and other municipal officers, and

WHEREAS the town of Wardsville is much in need of sweeping reforms for its civic betterment, a mass meeting has been called for to-night at the factory of the Wardsville Mattress Company to discuss candidates.

Mayor Clark gulped and blinked and made a queer, squeaky noise in his throat.

"W-who had them notices printed?" he demanded when he could find his voice.

The Early Bird drew himself up sternly.

"Read the signature—an' weep!" ' he declared grandly. "There it is at the bottom of the bill—The Wardsville Civic Improvement Association, Mr. Amos Clackworthy, chairman."

"B-but," Mayor Clark spluttered, "I— I have been mayor for five years, an'—"  He stopped in sudden panic as he realized that the ten voters who had stood by him so loyally during the past five years would not be the only ones to go to the polls now.

"Where— where will I find Mr.— Mr. Clackworthy?" he asked. "I— I would like to have a talk with him."

"Gone t' the big city, but I reckon he'll be back in time t' deliver a stirrin' address before the mass meetin'," replied The Early Bird maliciously, as he strode off down the street to continue his temporary job as bill poster.

That evening the office of the Wardsville mattress factory was filled; which is to say that some twenty of the empolyees were attending the mass meeting by persoanl request. Early in the proceedings Mayor Clark slipped inside and hung uncertainly at the rear, hoping for the best and fearing for the worst. He didn't like the cool, businesslike way that Mr. Amos Clackworthy, presiding at the table, opened the meeting. Rapping for order, Mr. Clackworthy got to his feet and fixed the little gathering with a steady gaze which rested for several accusing seconds on Mayor Clark.

"Gentlemen," he began, "we are about to form the permanent organization of the Wardsville Civic Improvement Association. Our town is face to face with a glorious future. We are soon to expand, to grow, and to prosper. In this future civic progress we must turn our eye toward civic betterment, to see that municipal officers of the highest possible caliber are elected; men who will lend their efforts and their influence to the best civic interests. Perhaps all of you are not aware that a very shameful condition now exists within our town's limits— gambling for high stakes!"

Mayor Clark winced; what he had feared was happening.

"Mind you," continued Mr. Clackworthy, "I do not accuse the present officials of abetting this immoral condition for any personal gain, but the fact that such a condition does exist, means that our present officials are inefficient, at. least. This condition must be stopped, and, since those now in power have not stopped it, we must elect to office at the forthcoming election men who will. The question before the meeting to-night is— who will be those men? Who will we elect for mayor?"

"You! You!" shouted The Early Bird, George Bascom, and Pop Blanchard in unison. "You!" echoed the faithful employees of the Wardsville Mattress Company.

"My friends," said Mr. Clackworthy with feeling, "I greatly appreciate this spontaneous tribute to your faith in me. In the face of such a storm of public approval I would be derelict in my duty as a citizen did I not offer my humble efforts to carry out the will of the better element of our fair community. I shall be most happy to announce my candidacy for mayor, and I promise you that if I am elected I shall stamp out this flagrant evil to which I have previously referred."

"Some spellbinder!" chuckled The Early Bird proudly.

"If I am elected," pursued Mr. Clackworthy with a smile, "I announce now that I shall name to the office of town marshal a man who will enforce the law as befits an appreciation of the solemn oath of office— Mr. James Early. I shall have Mr. Early address you with a few words in which he will assure you that he will not fail in his duty."

The Early Bird was considerably flustered at being called upon to make a public speech, for Mr. Clackworthy, with a joke up his sleeve, had not warned him that he would be called upon. But The Early Bird was game. He got to his feet and, after opening and closing his mouth several times without being able to get any words to roll forth, forced the first halting sounds through his lips.

"The boss here— I mean Mr. Clackworthy— has slipped you the right dope, I'm tellin' the world that while I ain't never been a flatfoot, I'm hep to the game." And he winked at Mr. Clackworthy, which was to say that what he referred to was the days when one of his chief occupations was dodging the police. "I'm puttin' my O. K. on the boss' remarks that when he is mayor of this burg, an' I'm wearin' the nickel-plated star an' jinglin' a pair of come-alongs in my pocket, there ain't gonna be no guys pilin' up a stack of the yellow stuff with no loaded dice or marked cards. I'm a little lame on performin' with the English langwidge, an' the old chin don't wag free an' easy when it comes t' the big words like it does t' some, but if the boss, here, puts me in as chief of police an' tells me t' run the gamblers outta town—well, the minute the ballots is counted an' they see that the boss wins in the final score, they'd better be huntin' a fresh place t' hang their hats, for I'll be on the job."

The Early Bird, perspiring with his oratorical effort, slumped down in his chair, as Mr. Clackworthy, laughing silently, clapped vigorously.

Mayor Sam Clark, who had come to the meeting with the intention of speaking a little piece himself, decided that it was no place for him and slunk miserably out of the hall. As fast as his almost trembling legs would carry him he hurried to the old Ward home to casry the sad tidings that the town had been struck by a small but devastating tornado of reform.

v

"BOSS," said The Early Bird when he and Mr. Clackworthy had returned to their own modest Wardsville cottage after the mass meeting, "I'm just beginnin' t' get this here game through the old bean. I gotcha!"

"Do you, indeed, James?"

"Sure! You're gonna get yourself elected mayor, an' I'm gonna pull a raid on this here swell gamblin' emporium an' make that Castleman goof talk turkey. We're gonna shake 'em down for a few bales of centuries."

Mr. Clackworthy lifted his palms in righteous horror.

"James!" he exclaimed, "You are intimating that I would corrupt a public office by accepting a bribe. Do I look like a man who would prostitute my public trust? No, James, I promise you that if I am elected mayor I shall carry out my platform and stamp out gambling."

"Then what's the lay?" pleaded The Early Bird. "Of course you're gonna be elected; with all the help at the factory votin' for you, you gotta win!"

"I think you are about to learn the answer," replied Mr. Clackworthy as a motor stopped out in front of the cottage. "My guess, James, is that Mr. Castleman is calling on us. Listen to me very closely, for I am going to let you entertain Mr. Castleman for a few minutes while I step outside."

Mr, Clackworthy spoke hurriedly but in terse, enlightening sentences that caused The Early Bird to nod quickly.

When Mr. Castleman entered the living room he found The Early Bird alone.

"Where'll I find this Clackworthy fellow?" demanded Castleman.

"Have a chair," invited James. "He'll be back in a coupla shakes."

Mr. Castleman ignored the invitation, contenting himself with striding angrily up and down the room. He was discouraged by the appearance of the room; certainly this was not the abode of some fly-by-night promoter; the furnishings bespoke a solidity of character, a man of culture.

"Humph!" he grunted. "Kind of a queer fellow, this Clackworthy, eh?"

"You've said it!" exclaimed The Early Bird. "He's a nut." If there  was any friendship between him and Mr. Clackworthy, James' voice failed to reveal it; in fact one would have guessed just the opposite.

"The very idear of him wastin' his time on-this reform foolishness," continued The Early Bird bitterly. "He's got his hands full as it is. Gonna make me chief of police! Of course I had t' agree with him— with all the dough I got tied up in this here factory business."

Mr. Castleman glanced up quickly.

"Then I take it," he said, "that you are not in sympathy with this— er— meeting to-night."

"I'm in sympathy with it just like the owner of a brewery is in sympathy with Volstead for president," retorted The Early Bird. "I like t' draw five cards m'self. But what's a guy gonna do? This Clackworthy bozo's got all my coin, an' I'm tryin' to jar him loose from it. I'm gettin' kinda shaky about this here village turnin' out t' be a second Chicago."

"I think you would be!" scoffingly stated Mr. Castleman. "Well, there's one consolation; the bubble will burst pretty soon."

"An' that's just where you're wrong," "The way things is runnin' now, the factory's breakin' even. It's when he goes t' spreadin' out that fish is gonna be hooked. An' Mr. Clackworthy's got dough, too; we'll last a coupla years, believe me."

"He will!" groaned Mr. Castleman. "A couple of years!" The reason for his grief was that only a few days before he had been so sure of his possession of a good thing that he had purchased the Ward property outright. But that was more or less a minor consideration; his profits were esormous. Isn't there some way to stop him?"

"Not a chance."

"I thought," said Mr. Castleman shrewdly, "that if I became— er— associated with this Mr. Clackworthy in a— umph— a business way, won his friendship by investing in his company, that perhaps he might— er— forget this reform business of his."

"Not a chance," grunted The Early Bird.

Mr. Castleman exploded with some blistering words.

The Early Bird assumed a pose of deep thought.

"I gotta hunch," he said slowly. "How much would it be worth t' you t' get Mr. Clackworthy outta this burg?"

"That depends," answered Mr. Castleman evasively.

"Then lemme spill a few words in your ear," said The Early Bird, and briefly he whispered his plan. Hardly had he finished when the door opened, and Mr. Clackworthy came in.

"Ah, good evening, Mr. Castleman," he said pleasantly. "This visit is more or less a surprise to me." Which was quite truthful, for it was much less a surprise than Mr. Castleman imagined.

"I called to talk about your promotion scheme," began Mr. Castleman, manufacturing a fair imitation of cordiality. "Since thinking things over and noting your— er— progress, I thought I might invest, after all; in fact, make a substantial investment."

"Just a minute, Mr. Castleman," interrupted Mr. Clackworthy. "Without malice I wish to inform you that your becoming a stockholder will not at all change my attitude toward your— er— unlawful occupation. Pardon me if I accuse you of ulterior motives; if you wish to come in as a bona fide investor, I welcome you; but if you are trying to divert me from a principle you are wasting your time."

"This is purely an investment with me," replied Mr. Castleman. "That being settled, let's get down to business. Your company is incorporated for fifty thousand dollars. I will buy half your stock."

"You surprise me!" exclaimed Mr, Clackworthy. "So large an investment! But I could not part with control, you know. I will sell you no more than twenty-two thousand dollars' worth of the stock— not a penny more. I would not even sell you that much, except that it will enable me to rush my plans to a more speedy consummation."

"Done!" said Mr. Castleman promptly. He knew when to play a pat hand.

It may seem surprising that the gambling-house owner should have agreed so willingly to part with such a large sum of money, but he knew that he could resell a large part of it to his patrons, mostly rich men, who would be willing to reimburse him for the privilege of continuing their quiet games in his establishment. He could think of a dozen who would take a thousand dollars' worth each.

"If you have the certificates, sign them over right now, and I'll give you my check," continued Mr. Castleman.

"It happens that I do have them," nodded Mr. Clackworthy.

And it was but the matter of a moment to complete the transaction. Before surrendering his check, however, Mr. Castleman turned to The Early Bird.

"And, now," he said, "I will buy your stock, Mr. Early. Turn over your shares. You see, Clackworthy," he went on triumphantly, "I do control your company, after all; with the shares that I get from Early, here, I own the majority of stock. I shall take over the affairs of the company to-morrow and have myself elected president."

"I don't understand," said Mr. Clackworthy, with well-simulated confusion. "Why— what do you propose to do?"

"That will be decided later, when I am in charge," replied Mr. Castleman sharply, and, gathering up his stock certificates, he jammed his hat on his head and strode out of the house.

When the gambling-house owner had gone, Mr. Clackworthy laughed with unrestrained mirth.

"He thinks that he has pulled a master stroke," he said.

"Yeah," said The Early Bird, grinning, "He thinks he's puttin' one over on us. To-morrow he'll close down the factory, an' all the employees'll have t' move back t' the city to get other jobs. Then the ten goofs what's been votin' for Sam Clark for five years will vote for him again— say, that's rich! Boss, I'll say you're opposed t' gamblin'; you always play the sure shots."

"But I do gamble, James," retorted Mr. Clackworthy, still laughing, "and that's just where the joke does come in; I was gambling on Castleman being so badly scared by our little reform movement that he wouldn't look up the law. Why, James, I haven't been a resident of Wardsville long enough to qualify as mayor; the charter demands that the mayor shall have been a citizen of the town at least two years prior to his election!"

The Early Bird sighed.

"Boss," he said, "I know we cleaned up a few thou' on this scheme, an' we had a lotta fun doin' it, but just the same I sure would have liked t' be a chief of police— even of a hick town."

_________________

Index to "Past Masters" stories, by author.

Issues 31-47

I never envisaged this series of original anthologies going into so many issues, and the ever-growing index to all issues was becoming unwieldy.  Accordingly, I have now divided the Index.  This Index commences with Past Masters 31.

The Index to Issues 1 to 30 can be found in Past Masters 30, or as a stand-alone document uploaded to the Kindle and Epub libraries at MobileRead.

The stories are arranged in Alphabetical order of Author's surname, or if the author's name is consistently a pseudonym, that pseudonym (eg "Owen Oliver").  They are then in alphabetical order of title, disregarding "A", "An" and "The".

____________

Cleve F. Adams

Frame For a Lady 38

Hervey Allen

Report to Major Roberts  47

Lewis Allen

Pinched 39

Robert L. Ahern

Murder Needs No Motive 34

Mark Allerton

The Wrong 'Un 44

Anonymous

The Lady Detective's Story 32

F. Anstey

The Talking Horse  34

Alice and Claude Askew

The Mystery of Chenholt 42

Phyllis in the Wood  40

Stacy Aumonier

Mrs. Huggins's Hun  41

The Perfect Murder  41

Lillian Bamburg

The Missing Pearls  39

Robert Barr

The Doom of London   39

Charles Beadle

The Double Scoop 39

Wolcott LeClear Beard

A Ledge of Safety 33

Frederick R. Bechdolt

The Case of Mimbres  37

Jimmy Riley's "Turn"  42

Randolph Bedford

Filamena's Hula 39

The Man Who Held the Wires  39

H Bedford-Jones

Apache Gold 31

The Arizona Callahan  37

The Devil's Fire 31

The Devil is Dead 31

The Fog at Fiddler's Green 31

The King's Pipe 34

Lady of the Evil Eye 31

Sons of Kalewa 31

J. J. Bell

Blue Blood, or, The Pride of Lady Ambrosia 44

The Message on the Sun-Dial  42

Ralph Wilhelm Bergengren

Mr Chubb's Burglar 44

J. D. Beresford

The Sceptical Poltergeist  45

Leslie Beresford

Eastern Guile 35

M. McDonnell Bodkin

The Murder on the Golf Links  41

Charles G. Booth

Not According to Text 44

Christopher B. Booth

In His Brother's Job  40

Jimmy the Lug 42

Mr Clackworthy and the Auto Rim  40

Mr Clackworthy Goes to Jail 40

Mr Clackworthy's Pipe Dream  41

Mr. Clackworthy's Return  41

Mr. Clackworthy Revives a Town 47

The Sealed Envelope 43

The Sparrow  40

Tardy, but on Time (as by John J. Chichester)  41

Jack Boyle

Ann of Satan-Town  46

George Bronson-Howard

The Steerage Passenger 44

Miles J. Breuer

Millions for Defense  47

The Stone Cat   47

Ellis Parker Butler

An Experiment in Gyro-Hats  37

Beating The Law 43

Eliph' Hewlitt on the Millinery Problem  44

Hats and Lilies 37

The Heckby Hill Murder 38

Mr. Marston's Chauffeurette  40

Scott Campbell

Rings of Dust 43

Hayden Carruth

Active Colorado Real Estate  46

Egerton Castle

The Baron's Quarry 42

The Closed Door  35

Robert W Chambers

As You Choose 44

Anna Alice Chapin

By Way of Experience 40

G. K. Chesterton

The White Pillars Murder 41

Richard Washburn Child

The Screen 45

C. Langton Clarke

The Detective for the Defense 33

Sylvanus Cobb Jr

A Footlight Flash 43

Desmond Coke

The Ghost That Failed  46

Richard Connell

The Grim House  41

Dorothea Conyers

Lord Hillayton's Settlement 35

Ted Copp

Blackmail Moll 36

Oswald Crawfurd

Our Mr. Smith  45

James Oliver Curwood

The Civilizing of Swift Lightning 46

Frederic Van Rensselaer Dey

The Bigelow Murder Mystery  40

Charles Dickens

To be Taken with a Grain of Salt  39

Captain Dingle

Homeward Bound 33

Deferred 33

George Allan England

Buzzards   38

Drugged  38

George Manville Fenn

Lady Florry's Gems  34

Francis Flagg

The Blue Dimension 33

By the Hands of the Dead 45

The Heads of Apex 33

The Picture 45

The Smell 45

J. S. Fletcher

The Manor House Mystery  41

Elliott Flower

The Elusive Ten Dollar Bill 36

A Bundle of Banknotes  43

J. M. Fry

The Ring   38

Jacques Futrelle

Mr. John Smith in Paris  47

Emile Gaboriau

The Little Old Man of Batignolles 34

Charles Garvice

The Two Uncles 44

Lady Gilbert

Aurora's Treasure 35

Guy Gilpatric

An Affair of Honour  46

The Crafty Jerko-Slovaks 32

The Ladies of Catsmeat Yard  37

One Good Tern  35

The Pearl of Panama 42

The Rolling Stone  41

The Toad Men of Tumbaroo  46

Westward, How!  46

Susan Glaspell

A Jury of Her Peers 44

Winifred Graham

Pan   39

C. J. Hamilton

The Luck of Barney Costello 44

Arthur P Hankins

Eyes of Blue   43

Arthur Sherburne Hardy

Peter  47

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

The Dancer's Mascot  35

Lewen Hewitt

Gold-Bricked 42

Headon Hill

Rogue's Legacy 32

William Crawford Honeyman

The Chinese Chessmen  42

Seward W. Hopkins

Dickerson's Bag of Gold 44

J. L. Hornibrook

Captain Cronhelm's Blunder 35

Oliver Madox Hueffer

Mistrusted Sight 41

S. B. H. Hurst

The Brightest Jewel of Them All  32

Washington Irving

The Story of a Young Robber 47

Burke Jenkins

The Anti-Climax of a Bad Man 44

His Christmas Orchid 44

Twenty-Four Hours Start 44

Wimple's Fog-Piercer 44

Jerome K Jerome

The Man of Science  43

Marianne Kent

A Black Diamond  35

Otis Adelbert Kline

The Dragoman's Slave Girl 35

George L. Knapp

The Family Compact  37

Thomas H. Knight

Old City of Jade  36

Alexander Kuprin

Menagerie 45

Henry Leverage

The Petermen of Providence  46

Alun Lewis

Private Jones 39

Sumner Locke

Ragtime 44

William J Locke

Ladies In Lavender 36

Marie Belloc Lowndes

Popeau Intervenes  41

Maarten Maartens

A Comedy of Crime 47

Newton MacTavish

An Unposted Letter 47

Charles J. Mansford

The Dervish of the Nile Pyramid 34

The Great Dial of the Gold-Finders 33

The Hidden Egyptian Shield  34

The Lost Fetish of Walai 35

The Veiled Idol of Kor 32

The Wizard of Swazi Swamp   37

Florence Marryat

The Box With the Iron Clamps  46

Mrs. L. T. Meade

Beauty Dear 32

The Yellow Dragon Vases 32

Mrs L. T. Meade and Dr Clifford Halifax, M.D.

The Strange Case of Captain Gascoigne 31

With the Eternal Fires 32

The Small House on Steven's Heath 33

"To Every one His Own Fear"  34

Gustav Meyrink

Bal Macabre  45

Alice Duer Miller

A Lot of Money  46

C S Montanye

Prey  40

The Strength of the Meek  47

Trapped 43

Arthur Morrison

A Lucifo Match 36

William Chambers Morrow

The Monster-Maker 42

Clarence Herbert New

The Attack from Moscow 32

Bill Garford’s Last Play (Culpeper Zandtt) 36

The Boss (Culpeper Zandtt)  37

A Challenge to the Submarine  36

The Island of Heaven and Hell 32

The Man Who Forgot  37

The Mystery at Mulungban  (Culpeper Zandtt)  37

A Night in the Kremlin 34

The Secret of Banda Sea 34

James Jeffreys O'Brien

Queen of the Beggars 44

Owen Oliver

The Cape Conspiracy  35

A Pretty Woman 31

A Rapid Conveyance  36

Success 40

E Phillips Oppenheim

Blackman's Wood 43

Frederick C. Painton

Narcotic Man  36

What! No Imagination? 38

Max Pemberton

The Cripple at the Mill  34

Last Across 39

The Lepers Guest   37

G. G. Pendarves

The Eighth Green Man  35

Hugh Pendexter

It Might Have Happened Otherwise  32

Kingbird 33

A New Keeper of the Wampum  39

The Raven Mocker 33

Wolf Medicine 41

Ernest M. Poate

Adjudged Incompetent  43

Doctor Bentiron's Addict Case 40

Honest John's Millions 42

Plain Soda 40

The Stolen Story 42

The Third Pinprick 42

Three Alike 40

Through the Looking Glass 40

Vials of Wrath 40

Well Done  40

K. & Hesketh Prichard

The Parole of Gevil-Hay  47

Lewis Ramsden

Désirée 32

C. S. Raymond

The Wireless Death 36

Robert Reeves

Alcoholics  Calamitous 39

Bail Bait  39

Dance Macabre 39

Morley Roberts

The Hut by the Lachlan 44

Morgan Robertson

The Subconscious Finnegan 36

Arthur Somers Roche

The Dayless Diamonds 32

A Flutter in Finance 32

After the Fact 46

"Illimore!" 31

Lady Dick 46

The Premiere Danseuse 32

Riches Can Take Wings  46

Road House 46

The Robbery at the Café Ravasan 31

The Victim of Amnesia 31

William Merriam Rouse

The Nitwit 36

Victor Rowan

Four Wooden Stakes  38

Leroy Scott

The Langdon Mystery  44

Mary Sharon

The Cat of Chiltern Castle  43

George Bernard Shaw

The Miraculous Revenge  43

Perley Poore Sheehan

Dead Men Talk  38

Helen Simpson

A Posteriori   41

George R. Sims

The Mystery of a Midsummer Night  42

Christopher St. John Sprigg

Death at 8.30  42

F St Mars

The Green Devil 43

Annie S. Swan

The Diplomat  38

William Alexander Taylor

Intermere 33

Guy Thorne

Sir Patrick Armagh's Knife  39

E Charles Vivian

The House Among the Pines 44

Locked In 44

Hugh Walpole

The Twisted Inn 42

Florence Warden

Grimgriffenhoof  39

Cy Warman

"Sycamore": A Ghost Story 44

F A M Webster

The Owl 45

Towards Morning 33

Carolyn Wells

The Mystery of the Jade Buddha 40

A Point of Testimony 43

The Stolen Gems 43

H. G. Wells

The Hammerpond Park Burglary  47

Albert Richard Wetjen

The Madness of Captain Jonas 44

Ethel Lina White

The Scarecrow  42

Henry S. Whitehead

Black Terror 45

Cassius 46

The Fireplace 45

Jumbee 37

The Left Eye 45

Mrs. Lorriquer 45

The Napier Limousine 45

The Projection of Armand Dubois 45

The Trap 45

The Tree-Man 45

Raoul Whitfield

The Caleso Murders 32

China Man 46

Diamonds of Dread  38

Inside Job 36

The Javanese Mask 42

Rivals of the Clouds 31

Shooting Gallery  41

Silence House 36

Sinners' Paradise 33

H. C. Witwer

The Barber of Seville, Ill.   46

Not So Big  47

William Tells  47

Leonora Wodehouse

Inquest  42

William Alron Wolff

Bait, Hook and Sinker  34

May Wynne

The Tiara  44

Arthur Leo Zagat

Girl of the Goat-God  43

______________________

Table of Contents

1: Report to Major Roberts / Hervey Allen

2: The Story of a Young Robber / Washington Irving

3: An Unposted Letter / Newton MacTavish

4: William Tells / H. C. Witwer

5: The Parole of Gevil-Hay / K. & Hesketh Prichard

6: Not So Big /  H. C. Witwer

7: The Hammerpond Park Burglary / H. G. Wells

8: The Strength of the Meek / C. S. Montanye

9: Mr. John Smith in Paris / Jacques Futrelle (novelette)

10: The Stone Cat /

11: Millions for Defense / Miles J. Breuer

12: A Comedy of Crime / Maarten Maartens

13: Peter / Arthur Sherburne Hardy

14: Mr. Clackworthy Revives a Town / Christopher B. Booth

Cumulative Index Nos 31-47